


Thunderstruck

by Mrstserc



Series: Before the Fall Verse [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drug Addiction, Gen, M/M, Psychotropic Drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 08:54:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/620326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mrstserc/pseuds/Mrstserc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boys have landed on a case in New Mexico, pitting their skills against an ancient winged race. Why is it, though, that family seems to be the bigger challenge for all of them?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thunderstruck

__

_Sound of the drums_

_Beatin' in my heart_

_The thunder of guns_

_Tore me apart_

_You've been – thunderstruck._

"Thunderstruck" by AC/DC

* * *

 

As an early sunset approaches, the Sandia Mountains glow the dark pink and red that give the mountain range its name – _Sandia_ , watermelon. The colors and the seemingly endless horizon are as perfect as the warmth of the campfire on a brisk fall night and the coldness of the beer as the group of campers settle into their site west of Albuquerque, New Mexico. They sit, and joke, eat hot dogs cooked over the open fire, and argue about which of the American presidents would be last man standing in a knife fight to the death, given all the givens these history majors can conceive.

Just four friends having fun and relaxing before the end of another semester at the University of New Mexico.

Later, the former Boy Scout readies the camp site for the night; he smothers the fire, makes sure all the food is safely stashed in a car, and walks off into the bushes to drain his bladder. Hearing thunder, he wonders if one of the infrequent squalls is going to rush through tonight, knowing that meteorologists aren't always able to pick up localized disturbances.

A second thunder clap and a flash of light give the man a photograph that etches horror into his mind, a tall humanistic form appears in front of him, dark iridescent feathers cover the figure – but he's sure it's female. The edges of the feathers appear as sharp as razor blades, wings as wide as two pickup truck lengths. He sees the wings rise again and feels his skull splitting as the clap of thunder strikes over his ears. The concussive force deafens him, but he thinks he screams as talons as long as forearms tear into his flesh.

The other men scramble from the sleeping bags and tents, armed with flashlights and cell phones. They too hear the strange thunder, and they try to understand what is happening. It's a bird-thing with their friend skewered on talons, dangling as light flashes again. The monster's wings lift and they feel that final clap of thunder as the things lifts into the darkness above them.

. . .

Dean offers Castiel a half smile as they share one mirror in the crowded bathroom. Sam has the other mirror to himself, as he too fusses over his appearance. His hair is shorter than he likes and he's not used to it. _Better than the frizz that scorching it had caused_ , Sam thinks. _And closer to Castiel's in length than Dean's military regulation cropped locks_. The suits he picked up in San Antonio for all three of them are shades of grays and blacks.

"Hmmm, maybe one of you should share this sink with me. If you keep staring at each other, we're never getting out of here," Sam teases. "Besides I've seen Dean spend hours _trying_ to look perfect."

Dean shoots a wry grin at his brother. "Jealous, Sammy? 'Cause it don't matter how long you spend -perfection is going to escape _you_." Dean waggles his eyebrows at his younger brother to take the sting out of his words. "Don't feel bad, kiddo, not your fault you're _uglier_ than me."

The Winchesters and their angel have been in Albuquerque less than a day, long enough to get settled into a two-bedroom suite at an extended stay hotel. They've recently found that it's better to let Sam put some space between him and waking up to his older brother and best friend intertwined, even if all they are doing is sleeping. George Mackey, author of ghost story books and owner of Paranormal Investigations of San Antonio, had called the boys about this case. His contact in New Mexico has arranged the lodging, so it is more upscale than the guys are used to, more comfortable, and not coming out of their pocket – or even on the credit of whichever scam is current.

No one but them needed to know the room with the one bed was for the two older men. Sam's room was the one with two queen-sized beds.

Dean checks his shave on his jawline and gives his collar, tie, and cuffs one last adjustment. Then he turns to check Castiel, tugging lightly on his tie so it hangs straight. "It's good to see you in a suit again. Kinda strange that it's not your holy tax accountant look, but still nice," Dean's voice is gravelly, and his breath catches slightly as he smoothes Cas's hair, resisting the urge to tangle his fingers in it and pull the angel closer.

As Sam steps out the bathroom, Castiel kicks the door shut and moves closer to Dean. His lips press a line of kisses across Dean's jaw toward his ear softly, but hungrily. Dean has been touching _him_ all morning, helping him fix his tie, adjusting his holstered handgun around his waist, tucking in tags and straightening the collar with blunt fingers trailing on his neck, inadvertently driving the fallen angel _crazy_. Cas has held back because Sam was there. That is, until that _catch_ Cas heard in Dean's breath shot like an electric current along Cas's nerves. He needs to hear it again, capture it with his mouth, feel Dean's professional façade melt under him.

Dean's back is pressed into the sink behind him, his hands on the sink holding him up, his knees buckling slightly as a whimper escapes and Cas drinks it in with his lips. Cas's strong arms are holding Dean up and his blue gaze is amused and smug as he looks at the man in his arms, just kissed lips plump and trembling, green eyes glazed with desire. He steps back. " _Now_ you're perfect."

"Come'on guys. Get out of there," Sam begs as he bangs on the closed bathroom door. "We have an appointment at the University." Just as Sam goes to knock again, the door opens and Cas strolls out, looking pleased with himself. Sam quirks an eyebrow at his trembling older brother still holding himself up on the sink. "You okay, dude? You look, ummm…" Sam can't think of the word as he watches his brother pull himself back together. "…pornographic."

 _Damn_ , Dean muses, _Cas all possessive and controlling is so hot that he feels like his brain has short-circuited. Just … hot damn._ "Stop looking at me, Sammy."

Sam laughs, turns away and catches his friend's eyes. "You really want us taking him out like this? It's like dangling bait at every horny woman or man we'll meet today."

Cas gives that silent laugh that lights up his face. "We'll _protect_ him, Sam. We won't let lechers steal him."

"I'm right _here_ , guys. Right _here_ in the room." Dean eyes the two men he loves more than life itself, accepting his embarrassment if it makes them both smile, but ready to dish out some tough love on them both. "And payback's a bitch best served cold."

. . .

Sam is driving the Impala, and Mumford and Sons "Sigh no more" is cranking out the speakers, ironically since the music made Dean, sitting in the navigator's seat, sigh like air escaping a punctured tire. Castiel has his head tilted, listening to the lyrics silently.

_Love; it will not betray you_

_Dismay or enslave you, it will set you free_

_Be more like the man you were made to be._

_There is a design, an alignment to cry_

_Of my heart to see,_

_The beauty of love as it was meant to be._

The younger Winchester thinks his older brother should reconsider all the macho hard-rock metal bands he insists on, if only to bring that delighted look to the angel's face – fallen angel, he corrects himself; _friend_ , he adds. Sam has to admit he was as appalled as Dean by the thought of listening to hours of nature sounds when Cas had a chance to drive, but Dean over-reacted when he threw the cassettes out the car window between Roswell and Albuquerque.

As they drive onto the University of New Mexico's campus, the three men are met with depictions of the mascot. "Son-of-a-bitch." Dean's pointing, and using this start of conversation to reach over and turn off the music. "Sam, is that a frikkin' werewolf of some kind?"

Sam explains it's a lobo, a Mexican wolf, not a werewolf. He says it's the university's mascot, as he pulls up to the building that houses the liberal arts graduate programs. "This is where we are meeting the witnesses to the most recent attack," Sam says pointing with his chin. Plus, this is where we're meeting our contact with …" Sam reads from his notes. "The League of Western Fortean Intermediatists, umm, his name's Professor Price Campbell. He's a history professor here."

"Price … _Campbell_?" Dean interrupts. "Related?"

"Don't know," Sam answers, surprised at himself for not making that connection. "Probably not, Dean. Campbell's not an uncommon name."

As the three men unwind from the Impala, Sam tosses the keys to his brother, suddenly frowning. Wasn't it just two days ago Dean convinced a doctor to give him a brace instead of a cast. Dean sees his brother's measuring look, taking in the sweep to his knee, and the narrowing around his brother's hazel eyes, and decides it's a good time to go over the cover identities he's chosen.

Their cover is FBI. He and Sam are investigators, and Cas is the crime scene, forensics, guy. Their IDs read Sam Phillips, Cassidy Young, and Dean Shaw because Dean loves blending in the names of Styx with their own. "Just be the strong _silent_ type, Cas," Dean reminds him. "Let me or Sam handle the questioning."

"I am _not_ stupid, Dean." His angel says with soft menace. "Do not coddle me - or underestimate me."

Dean claps his hand on Cas's shoulder, turning him toward the building. "Wouldn't dream of it." Neither of the other men realizes that Dean has successfully deflected them from noticing, or mentioning, the lack of leg brace.

They are met in the foyer by Professor Price Campbell who leads the three men to a meeting room down the hall from his cramped office where books have claimed most of the space as their own. He's in his 60s – almost as tall as Sam, but at least 25 pounds lighter. More of his weight lies around his middle, reminding Dean of George Mackey. _Older academics that are clued into the supernatural. Both pitching in how they can without becoming hunters. I could learn to really appreciate people like that_ , he thinks. _No freak outs, no stumbling over amateurs._

The three students huddled around the table look like they haven't slept since the camping trip. Each of them makes eye contact briefly when introduced before refocusing on the coffee mugs cradled in the hands, looking slightly puzzled. Jonathan Patrick, John Battles, and Hank Emery are still in shock over losing their friend and fellow student, Donald Campbell.

" _Campbell_? You related to the deceased?" Sam raises his head from his notes and asks the professor.

"We all are," Professor Campbell says. "But we're _researchers_ not _hunters_."

Price Campbell can see he has startled the Winchesters, and he goes on to explain that he is the Campbell Clan's connection to academia with far-flung family from around the country sending their next generation of researches to train under him, in one of the few programs in the country that ties history, anthropology, and comparative mythology together.

"Hear me out," he pleads with Dean, whose eyes are narrow and whose stance is menacing at this point. "Please, sit...please?"

Professor Campbell explains that this group doesn't know anything about what happened with the Winchester's mom, Mary Campbell-Winchester, with their grandfather, Samuel Campbell, or with their father.

"We called you here because people are dying, and you Winchesters are the best hunters out there. But, yeah, you don't need your cover stories with us. We know _who_ and _what_ you are," he says. "I'm your grandfather's younger brother. You boys are my great nephews."

Professor Campbell then turns his attention to Cas. "Not so much _you_ , Cassidy Young. Matter of fact, the only partners we've heard these guys work with are Bobby Singer and an angel. And I know enough about Singer to know you aren't him." It is _almost_ a question, but not quite.

The tension in the room mounts. The professor feels like he is locked in a cage with two agitated tigers. These young men are dangerous, he knows, and the rumors about them would make any sane person leery of crossing them.

The trio of cousins at the table is now looking up at the hunters, as though the pretense had weighed down their eyes before this. "Can we put aside the family connection, now? Can we talk about the case?" Professor Campbell practically begs.

Cas and Sam both turn their eyes towards Dean, waiting for his decision. He is the _senior_ hunter.

Dean loosens his tie, shrugs out of his suit jacket, and spins a chair around to straddle it. No sense in wearing a costume if he doesn't need to. "Tell me about the attacks," he says, settling in to hear the details he needs to find and gank a monster. "Keep the conversation to the monster. I'm not here for some half-assed family reunion."


	2. Bring it on home

_Tell you, pretty baby, you love to mess me `round._

_I'm gonna give you lovin', baby, gonna move you out o' town._

_Bring it on home…_

"Bring It On Home" by Led Zeppelin

No matter how hard Dean tries to keep the three college students on topic – _ya know_ , winged monster, killing people - please describe (size, coloration, method of attack). He can't seem to block the subject _family_ from trickling in occasionally. It's bizarre, like stumbling into some sort of Twilight Zone/This Is Your Life nightmare, and for a family that got wiped off the map there always seems to be more Campbells waiting around to screw things up.

These kids, younger than Sammy was when Dean went to Stanford to get him, are making him feel frikkin' _old_. Jonathan, John, and Hank have offered what they remember of the incident and a shaky photo taken on a cell phone during the attack. Worst of all, they're looking up at him like he's some kind of hero, like he's a legend they're proud to be helping, and the entire thing makes him queasy. The way these kids talk, they're all some sort of frikkin' myth from their classes, and it's worse than reading Chuck's books.

The only answer he has is to fall back on the job. Dean's using his best interview methods to help the boys remember details, throwing in simple bond-building queries, just like he would for any witness who was nervous, to help them be more at ease. Something so innocent as commenting on Jon and Johnny's names, and the boys are haring off on another story about how the family showed its admiration for John Winchester – a civilian who became a hunter, who then rebelled against accepting help from the 'family business' and yet still became a great hunter – by making John the most popular baby name for boys born into the Campbell Hunting Clan for years.

Hank pitches in and tells about the far-flung Campbell network (oldest hunting family in the US, having killed vamps on the Mayflower) tracks every hunter, and how this newest generation of researchers and historians are currently keeping a Livejournal blog, where they put _every little family secret or piece of gossip_ on the internets. Seems before going live, back when Deanna and Samuel's little girl married that mechanic and for years after, the Lawrence, Kansas, psychic Missouri Mosely has been helping the family keep track of the Winchesters' doings.

"When the family board learned you were actively hunting so young, they spread the news and it pretty much stopped the hero-legend of your father - that is mostly, but not completely because not everyone believes all the stories. Guess that puts us as on the tail end of the John Winchester tributes." John Battles explains to Dean, whose face looks carefully blank, unless you can read the pain in the set of his brows like Sam and Castiel can.

Dean's forehead is in his palm as he massages gently. Then, grasping at straws, trying to turn the conversation back to safe ground … _monsters_ … "Tail, did it have one?" he barks the question.

John Battles is hard to derail; and like the history major he is, he likes keeping his facts straight. "I read it in the family history. Right around '90, that's when Dean and Deanna started being number one for baby names. You guys are legends in the family. That's big for us. Hunters are big. It's like having a favorite sports team."

" _Enough_!" Dean rises and slams his palm on the table, rattling coffee cups and water glasses.

"I don't want to hear this _bullshit_ about my _mythical family_. I want to hear about the mother-frikkin' _mythical beast_ tearing people apart. I have a job to do here." He stands to his full-height, an impressive, honed-muscled, six-feet of military-straight, shoulders back, _weapon_. His posture coupled with his barked orders shouts military commander. It says _don't fuck with me_. And the barely contained fury in his green glare sets the witnesses scrambling for reasons that they need to be somewhere else, anywhere else.

Professor Campbell has been keeping a watchful eye – his students are research and history only. The family used to be one-quarter hunters, now it is down to about ten percent. But Professor Campbell is a well-informed member of the Campbell Family Board, so he doesn't jump or become nervous; he knows what he is seeing now. _This_ is the legend _unsheathed_ ; the Righteous Man, the Michael Sword, the man who accepted adult responsibilities at the age of four, who killed his first monster with a child's gap-toothed grimace. Right here in this room are the Hunters who have fought heaven and hell, never mind the monsters of earth.

This man, his great nephew Dean, has died and returned so many times - that if only half of the reports are true - it strains credulity _._ As historians, the uncle and cousins want this chance to learn more than is currently recorded in the family records about Dean - and Sam - Winchester. The lost Campbell hunters. They want to sort fact from fiction. But Price Campbell is old enough, intelligent enough, and experienced enough not to push.

Professor Campbell has interviewed a slew of military heroes and Hunters; he has gathered the collection of Campbell journals and history for a lifetime, and he sees the cracks. Post-Traumatic Stress, he thinks, and wonders how these young men cope.

 _Legends don't say enough about the cost to the hero,_ Sam thinks _._ The younger brother sees how expensive being a hero is - paid out in the broken man his brother has become, in his brother's fallen angel, in himself. But Dean has always been his hero; and he sees this hero still, even in the brother who has been flayed raw more by those he has allowed himself to love than by any measure of hate by his enemies.

Dean defines family as people you give your _all_ for, time after time, until you have nothing left to give. Sam knows his big brother has decided, after their last few encounters with a resurrected grandfather, that family is not a matter of _blood_ but of _bond_. Sam looks at this group and _knows_ they do not deserve that bond from his brother. They haven't _earned_ the right to be family, to claim that _connection_. They don't deserve the measure of devotion Dean gives to those he considers more important than himself.

But Sam will save them as he will save his brother from these children peeling off scabs wantonly because Sam is a _Big Damn Hero_ , too, he snorts. He motions for Castiel to get Dean out of the room, but Dean shrugs off his angel's guiding hand and slams the door behind him. With a frown, Castiel stares at the closed door between them, before turning back to Sam and shaking his head slightly, returning to his seat: 'personal space,' the perpetual lesson drilled into him, and he recognizes Dean's need to escape for what it is.

Hands folded over his knees, Castiel turns his gaze back to the collected Campbells, silent, and apparently Sam's taking lead in this conversation now.

When Sam finds his brother outside afterwards, he is leaning against the Impala with his flask in hand. The younger man carefully keeps any trace of disappointment from his face as he takes the whiskey from Dean's hand and pulls on it himself, handing it to Cas after, who shrugs and drinks too with the kind of casual negligence towards alcohol that he could only be picking up from Dean. They lean up against the car on either side of Dean, shoulder to shoulder.

It's not quite eleven and Dean is drinking whiskey. Not long ago, Dean promised his brother to cut back on his drinking – and he's been keeping that promise, nothing 'til noon then only an occasional beer until at least 5 p.m. There have been a few evenings where Dean never switched to the harder stuff at all. One uncomfortable conversation, and he's back to the Hunter's Helper with breakfast.

"I told the professor we'd meet him at a restaurant for lunch," Sam tells Dean, uncomfortably raking a hand through his short hair. "He'll bring the research he has put together, and he wants us to meet his teaching assistant. Says she'll take us out to the camp site after lunch."

Dean nods. It's the first indication he's given that he realizes they are even there. His inhalation is sharp and sounds pained, like he might have actually stopped breathing in the tightly-coiled ball he has become. "Sounds good." His voice is guttural, and Sam can see that his brother is beating himself up, again, going to start apologizing in a minute.

"You want to navigate?" Dean's heading off the conversation he's tired of having, pushing off of the car and stealing the flask back from his angel, tucking it back into his pocket. "Figure we can head back to the hotel room, get out of these monkey suits before lunch." Already he's unknotting his tie entirely now, thumbing open the collar of his shirt and then holding his hand out to his brother. "Keys."

It's been a good twenty minutes since Dean walked out of the conversation and hit the whiskey. Sam's expression says it all. He has the keys and doesn't plan to hand them to his brother. With a glare, Dean shifts posture, shoulders tensed, and gestures again. "Keys, Sammy."

"Give it up, dude. You're gonna make a spectacle of us if I've gotta hold them out of your reach with you jumping around trying to grab them like some kind of puppy."

"I could drive, or navigate," Castiel offers. He has been watching and listening to the brothers these last few hours and knows how difficult it is for them to hear others' perceptions of them and the life they have led. Cas knows how criticism of John Winchester rubs across unhealed wounds in both the man's sons. He also knows neither one wants him to drive – it's a control thing.

The sharp denial from both Winchester boys is the desired effect, this time. Sometimes, he simply had to give them something they could both disagree with, to build an agreement from. In the end, he settles into his place in the back seat of the Impala, ignoring Dean's grumbling complaints about wanting to get them somewhere in one piece, smiling faintly to himself as he listens to his hunters settle back into a more normal routine.

. . .

Pulling into the High Noon restaurant parking lot at high noon, the Hunters are more casually dressed than earlier - boots, jeans, layers of shirts and jackets that help them conceal their weapons. They look more relaxed when Professor Campbell waves them over to his table than they had been when they left the meeting room. Campbell is amused to watch them try to be inconspicuous in their stroll to the table, noting that Dean's gait is slightly off, concealing a limp. These three young men looked too ruggedly handsome not to draw every eye in the room to them. Handsome and – even relaxed – potentially dangerous.

Professor Campbell stifles a snort at his graduate student's alert look as her eyes seem to drink them in. Campbell and his teaching assistant rise to meet them as they reach the table. Shaking hands all the way around, the professor uses first names only to introduce the Hunters.

"Dean, Sam, Castiel – this is Bernadette Garcia-Gallegos. She's an all-but-dissertation in Comparative American Mythologies, and a good friend. Bernie – I've told you about my great nephews."

The three young men take stock of the woman before them. Bernie looks to be about Sam's age, is every bit as tall as Castiel, and probably weighs about the same as the slender man. On her, it's less overt musculature and more – womanly and curved. Her blue-black hair is controlled in a French braid that reaches to her waist. Dark amber eyes set in naturally tanned skin are shaded by lashes as long, thick, and dark as her hair. Not that Sam is looking.

"I have the best boss in the world," she says, smiling and extending her hand to each of the men in turn, and as she presses her firm grip to Sam's she winks, laughter coloring her voice. "He's buying me lunch with the Chippendale dancers."

They order with their host insisting they try whatever they think they'll like. Sam says he'll try the Spicy Chicken Blue-Corn Enchiladas and a side salad; Cas orders Rock Shrimp Enchiladas, and Dean tries something new, a green-chili Cheeseburger – with bacon if they have it. The professor and TA both order a house specialty, the High Noon Bolognese, comfortable in the space as if they've passed many a lunch bantering at these tables.

After their order is placed, the waiter wanders off, leaving them sitting at a large round table in the adobe-walled room with oil lamps flickering from niches in the wall. Tables sit far enough apart that they can discuss the pages Bernie hands around, meticulously annotated and typed sheets with cross-references to other studies, and Sam can't help but be a little impressed. "Do you have any of this on disc?"

Bernie brightens again, flashing a warm grin at Sam as she half ducks under the table to grab her laptop case. "I've got it on a thumbdrive. I just figured you guys were like Price. Hidebound old coots."

"Bernie. . ." Professor Campbell narrows his eyes at the younger woman in teasing admonition, but she chuckles unrepentantly as she emerges with a thumbdrive, and Sam pulls his laptop onto the table between them, crowding a little closer to the almost-professor. Sam likes the feel of Bernie's thigh close enough to touch his, and he thinks he could get used to looking a woman in the eye without ducking his head. Sitting this close reminds him it has been three weeks since his encounter with the Saint Mary's law student in San Antonio, and Bernie turns her head in their conversation to watch him out of the corner of her eye as she points out information on the screen, quick cross-linking and databasing, and she was making monster-research sound sexy and interesting.

God save Dean from geek _flirting_. Glancing at the interaction with a snort, he trades a look with Castiel, who appears to have entirely missed the overtones, cocking an eyebrow at Dean questioningly as he dumps five packets of sugar into his tea, head tipping to the side. Rolling his eyes, Dean rests his forehead on his hand, laughing quietly to himself: it was nice to know that the general obliviousness hadn't been beaten out of Cas entirely.

Campbell doesn't miss any of the words or glances, having noted them earlier in the day as well. These three men seem to have been working together long enough that they can have complete conversations without words.

Professor Campbell explains that while Bernie isn't family, but she's clued in to hunters, and on-track to teach future hunting researchers. He asks his assistant to take the lead and leans back where he can listen and watch. The professor is as interested in Castiel as his nephews. He doesn't know a single credible historical account since biblical times for human-angel interactions, and there's still something alien and inhuman about the man sitting across from him, clothed as if he'd been borrowing out of the Winchesters' wardrobe and eyes flicking across the room every few minutes as if cataloguing every new patron to the restaurant as they entered.

Bernie starts with what most informed people would recognize as a lecture in cryptozoology. "There are several types of winged monsters described in Native American lore," she starts, pausing to point out that one constant is that the lore encompasses every American Indian culture. "The local Pueblos tell of the Achiyalabola whose feathers are sharp as knives. In other tribal mythologies, there are Piasa Birds, the Bird Women of the Rockies, and the Marionettes, also known as the Marfa Lights."

Bernie stops as the waiter returns with their food, until each has what he ordered in front of him. She gestures with her fork at the computer screen as she continues, animated and clearly intelligent. "There are tales of winged creatures _all_ across North America, and in all of them the figures are portrayed as dual natured - mostly beneficial, helpful even, but then you get a story with some who go bad and start attacking campers or mutilating cattle. And _that's_ what I think you're dealing with. A Thunderbird who's gone off the deep end. In legends of Thunderbirds, the claims are that their eyes flash like lightening, and they create the sound of thunder with their wings. They're carnivorous, get blamed frequently blamed in cattle mutilations . . . it all seems to fit."

Professor Campbell steps in to give them a physical description, and to give Bernie a chance to eat, but he shakes his head because so much of the information is so vague as to be useless. "Their wingspans are described as anywhere from 15 feet to 185 feet. So the boys' estimate of 50 feet falls in there. Thunderbirds live pretty much anywhere in the U.S. While we have pictures and sightings, we've never found any type of nest. Their wings are either dark golden or blue-black. They may, or may not, be an all-female race that mate with humans."

Professor Campbell points out the list of confirmed sightings from the mid 1800's until the present. In Tuppa County Missouri, 1886, one swooped down and took an eight-year-old boy. The father shot it, and the boy was dropped. "The boy died in fall," points out the professor. "But there's no report of the Thunderbird's body being found, so shooting it might not be the answer."

He continues his litany; 1886 – Tombstone, Arizona, 35-foot wingspan, photo published in _Tombstone Epitaph_. "Unfortunately that photo is about as clear as the one the boys took the other night." Four more sightings through the mid-1970's mostly on the east coast, he says. But for the past 40 years, the only sightings have been in the Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, and Colorado.

The discussion at the table halts again, as the waiter removes the now empty dishes. Dean shoots a faintly downcast look at the dessert menu on the middle of the table, and Castiel ducks his head down to hide a smile as he watches Dean grudgingly settle on just coffee because of the restaurant's deplorable lack of pie. Castiel seconds the request, and eventually they all agree on coffee. After it arrives, it's question and answer time.

"Any history in the Campbell Clan about confronting these monsters?" Dean wants to know.

Bernie jumps in to volley that one with two answers. The first that – no, there's no lore about any of the creatures being captured or killed by any hunter, ever. "I'm not sure it's fair to classify them as monsters," she adds, expanding on her answer when Sam asks her to. "They're dual natured, sure, but they're usually the good guys. I think it would be best to think of them as . . . as American Indian angels."

Neither boy resists the urge to turn to Castiel with surprised and questioning looks in their eyes. "They are not agents of heavenly fate," he says unequivocally, shaking his head slightly, hands folding around his coffee mug to let the warmth bleed into his skin, just this side of uncomfortable. "Perhaps you are speaking of some other afterlife besides Heaven?"

Bernie sits open mouthed, and the professor looks amused as Sam reaches over to lightly tap her jaw. "Flies'll get in, my brother used to say." He adds with a small smile.

"Well, that answers me for sure on who _you_ are," Professor Campbell says to Castiel, who looks pained, averting his gaze down to the inky surface of his coffee. "I guess I just don't understand why you're still down here, what with the Apocalypse being averted."

"I fell," he says, dull and matter-of-fact, the remnants of the emotionless creature he was supposed to have been. "I am a hunter now." But that is the last word they hear from Castiel at this table, given with an air of finality. He withdraws into himself, and Dean knows he's not really with them anymore. Seemed like the reminder was enough to send him right back to Angel Radio, tuning in upon the distant communications he hears from the heavenly host.

 _Well, that's awkward_ , thinks Sam, and when he looks to Dean for direction his brother's eyes are fixed on the angel next to him, clearly as distressed. Sam decides he'll have to be the voice of the group.

Bernie is still looking shocked as she processes the information that she just had lunch with an angel from the _Christian pantheon_. "Well, that puts a whole other twist on the word faith."

"So did the almost-Apocalypse. Trust me, we were there." Sam offers her a small, guileless boy-next-door smile. "But we would all appreciate not talking about it, if you don't mind."

The discussion changes to the Campbell Clan at a slight urging from the professor, and Sam warns him that while he'll answer some questions, he's pretty sure the academic won't like what he hears about his older brother Samuel Campbell. That turns out to be true as the professor requests and gets permission to record Sam's account of Samuel Campbell's interactions, both before and after his first death.

"Seems your brother wanted his daughter Mary to be a hunter, even though she didn't want to," Sam starts. "Plus, he didn't approve of my dad. Oh, and he and my brother butted heads pretty well when Dean time-travelled back to 1973."

 _God_ , he's making a mess of this, he thinks, dragging a hand down his chin. _Maybe I SHOULD talk about it, like all the PTSD pamphlets suggested_. "Your niece, my mom. . . she made a deal with a demon named Azazel about allowing him in the house in ten years– so November 1983, the night of the fire. In the deal, she wanted to have the – evil- fallen angel bring back her mother, father, and my dad – all of whom he had killed. She settled for dad." He gulps his last remaining bit of ice water, knowing the story's coming out disjointed and not sure how to fix that.

Sam sits there shaking his head. This sounds so weird, even to him, that he is pretty sure he is blowing his chance at getting to know the pretty TA next to him better, but when he peeks up at her from his lowered eyes, he sees that she is fascinated. _Figures_ , he thinks, _my story is freakish enough to interest a cryptozoologist_.

"I met your brother again last year when he was raised from the dead by the King of Hell on a deal to hunt and capture monsters in exchange for Mary's life. Which, by the way, I don't think could have happened because I have it on good authority that mom's in heaven. Umm, dad is too. He got out when the Hell Gate opened."

Sam looks around the table. His throat feels like it's closing up, and he is sorry he ever started talking about this. Castiel won't raise his eyes from the rapidly cooling coffee untouched in his mug, Professor Campbell is looking shocked. In the pause, Dean catches his younger brother's pleading look and swallows, dragging himself from his thoughts and back into the conversation around him. He'll finish this for Sammy.

Dean clears his throat and completes the horror story, abrupt and forbidding. "He tried to _feed us to ghouls,_ us, his grandsons, because we tried to stop him from helping the king _poobah_ of Hell. We survived, but we had to kill him the next time we met him because he was infected by a bug thing invented by the Mother of All Evil. Pretty sure he's in hell. _The end_ ," Dean snaps.

Professor Campbell has learned of his brother's second death, and he has learned for sure that these young men in front of him have plenty of reasons to be emotional wrecks.

"I need a drink," he says.

 


	3. Whole Lotta Love

Professor Campbell is pretty justified in needing a drink – Sam can't imagine what it's like, hearing that much crap about his older brother. So, he understands it, can get behind it, but it's not five yet and Sam wants to help Dean keep his promise about cutting back on the drinking, so he's a bit pushy about the four of them getting ready and heading to the attack site. Once he gets his brother moving, Dean pulls Cas back out of his thoughts with a hand on his shoulder and a tip of his head, leaving Sam to escort Bernie out.

"So, Bernie, want to come back to the hotel with us?"

Dean's smirk blooms suddenly, his snort of laughter unrepressed and carrying, and Sam nearly swallows his tongue as Bernie arches one eyebrow smoothly, lips curling into an amused grin. "I meant while we got our stuff together. For the hike. And the camping."

"Smooth, Sammy. _Real_ smooth." Clapping a hand to his brother's shoulder, he gives Bernie his best shit-eating grin. "You gotta forgive my little brother here. He gets a bit overeager." Oh, and this is the _payback_. Retaliation for this morning's joke between Cas and Sam at Dean's expense, and Dean would have milked it except that Sam could tell he wasn't really feeling it. At the first sign of Sam's patented bitchface, he quirked his lips into a more natural expression. "Actually, you know what? Why don't you and Bernie head back to her place, get her stuff together first. I can pack you up, and Cas and me . . . we've got things to do back at the motel."

Sam's not stupid – and Dean isn't being subtle. This isn't a hint, any more than it's a suggestion.

Even without looking at Cas, Sam can tell that his brother's singularly focused on the angel standing silently behind him, looking out over the parking lot with his hands clenched at his sides, gaze unfocused. Even if they were alone, he probably wouldn't retaliate in teasing about this. Sam knows that these two will stay curled into their own shells until they find a way to break through their tension. Sam wonders how Bernie will take this new revelation, because she's not stupid either, and he can see her gaze shifting between Dean and the angel, understanding slotting into place in her amber eyes.

"Yeah, sounds good. Call me when you've got everything together." Slapping Dean on the shoulder maybe a little harder than he has to ( _they'll get back to the sniping later, it's a silent promise_ ), Sam offers a smile at Bernie again, and follows her to her Jeep Cherokee, climbing into the passenger's seat as Dean leans into Castiel to get his attention, his words enough to draw the angel back to them again and send him moving for the shotgun seat of the Impala.

. . .

At first, in the early days of their relationship, Dean handled his need for the fallen angel quickly and bordering on violently, but over the months he's grown more used to this overwhelming urge to touch his angel. He has stopped fighting his attraction to another man – because it's not men, it's Cas _only_ -and now it's Dean who stands too close, and who follows almost on the heels of his angel as they enter the motel room.

"Hey, buddy, you're tensed up like a guitar string wound too tight," Dean murmurs in his ear as they close the door behind them, and he grazes a hand down Castiel's arm, cupping his elbow and drawing him after, walking backwards as he offers a crooked smile, green eyes searching Cas's face. "Let me give you a massage. No expectations. Just a little something I learned how to do a long time ago."

Dean leads his angel to the bedroom and tells him to take his clothes off and lie down, and he can see the moment Castiel really checks back in. He doesn't like this, didn't miss Cas swallowing two pills from his pocket down in the restaurant, and if damnit he will _not_ watch Cas sink into what he became in the future Zachariah showed him. Cas has never been able to ignore him, and he can anchor him now in this. Whatever it takes.

Blue eyes flicking back to Dean, Castiel cants his head slightly to the side, attempting to read him and eventually letting him lead. So much of their time was spent as two alpha males attempting to control. . . maybe it was time to let go.

Jacket, boots, socks, come off and are hung, folded, rolled – _it's like watching an awkward_ _striptease_ –shirt, t shirt, jeans, boxers, stripped off with no intent to cause the tightening Dean feels inside, done with such innocence and trust. All these years of screwing up his life, and Cas still trusts him.

Cas positions himself on the bed, stomach down, face hidden, but his ass is exposed; and before Dean can even touch his angel, he can see the muscular cheeks clench. Dean bites hard on his lower lip to stop any sound from escaping.

"I'm not sure I'm comfortable like this," Cas complains. "You're still fully clothed and I feel – _exposed_."

"Stop trying to get me outta my pants, Cas." Dean makes soothing, hushing sounds as he moves slowly toward the bed; and Cas's breathing starts becoming quick and shallow. But Dean doesn't touch him yet, just clicks the bedside lamp to a low nightlight and turns on the iPod sitting on a speaker-charger. Led Zeppelin plays with the insistent guitar strumming at decibels lower than Dean blasts it in the Impala. "Whole Lotta Love" spills out.

_You need coolin' baby, I'm not foolin'_

Dean pours oil in his palm and rubs his hands together to warm it. Then Dean starts using his strong wide palm, with long smoothing strokes on Cas's back, following the tensed lines of his muscles. This isn't _just_ the urge to touch for Dean – he meant it about the tension. Castiel's carried his stress in his knotted shoulders and ramrod straight back since the moment he fell, with every claustrophobic episode and every difficult conversation.

_I'm gonna send you back to schoolin',_

Cas moans quietly, low and sandpaper rough - the tensed back has been a constant ache, but under Dean's ministration he relaxes and _yes, oh, good_ … Dean is digging into those muscles, forcing them to unknit with firm, knowing hands.

_Way down inside honey, you need it,_

_I'm gonna give you my love,_

_I'm gonna give you my love._

_Wanna Whole Lotta Love_

_Wanna Whole Lotta Love_

_Wanna Whole Lotta Love_

_Wanna Whole Lotta Love_

After working on his back, Dean goes for his hands. Oiled fingers massaging each pressure point, every tense muscle. He moves on to triceps and biceps and works on them inch, by inch, by inch. Cas feels Dean's fingers move higher with tender, strong, powerful strokes on his shoulders now.

_Instrumentals, slightly discordant and incomprehensible sounds. Moans. And echoes._

_Then insistent guitar._

Cas startles slightly when Dean stoops to ask him softly, warm puffs of air where Cas's dark hair begins to curl on his neck, if he's cold when the shivering starts. Incoherent sounds the only answer.

_You've been learnin', baby, I've been yearnin',_

_All them good times, baby, baby, I've been yearnin',_

The foot massage makes him almost comatose with pleasure. Every toe, every pressure point rubbed, stroked and soothed. Cas is making sounds like a cat's purr now, and Dean hums a response, dragging his thumbs up to Castiel's ankles.

_Way, way down inside honey, you need it,_

_I'm gonna give you my love... I'm gonna give you my love._

Calves and knees are next, and Castiel buries his face against the pillow, relishing the touch. Then Dean's hands move away to gently massage Cas's the underside of the angel's lower thighs… Castiel whimpers when Dean's hands move away.

When those strong hands are back, it's to gently knead the back of his neck. Then Dean's hands trace south towards Cas's lower back.

_You've been coolin', baby, I've been droolin',_

_All the good times I've been misusin',_

_Way, way down inside, I'm gonna give you my love,_

_I'm gonna give you every inch of my love,_

_Gonna give you my love._

Cas wonders why he has never really listened to this music before. He wonders if he'll ever be able to hear it again without thinking of this moment with Dean breathing in his ear, nibbling the edges, lightly sucking the lobe, and his powerful hands playing Castiel's muscles like a musical instrument.

And the song must be on repeat because it begins again.

_You need coolin', baby, I'm not foolin',_

_I'm gonna send you back to schoolin',_

"Maybe we should stop now," Cas chokes out as Dean begins to massage his thighs, cupping his warm palms around each muscle and rubbing, pulling, smoothing, and moving up to where they join. But Dean just smiles at him, unrelenting – whispers _payback_ \- reaches to brush each cheek, not hurrying, rubbing circles and lightly digging into muscles. Humming as he slowly unravels his angel under his hands the way Castiel had him with a stolen kiss that morning.

Castiel has stopped making words, only short panting sounds come out of his mouth, fists clenching the sheets under him. This is the only way Dean likes to see his angel wrecked.

Dean's growl is feral and possessive, "Roll over."

. . .

Bernie's place is in Old Town, not far from the restaurant. It's a pretty typical two bedroom apartment with the smaller bedroom doubling as a study. American Indian artifacts and all types of books seem to be the main decorations. Her apartment is small enough that Sam can stand near the front door and talk to her as she moves around collecting her backpack and things for a camping trip with the sure hand of someone who camps frequently.

Sam has been shifting around, pacing as much as confined spaces and long legs will allow, by the front door. His mind is still back in the parking lot, on Cas and Dean and the recognition he caught in Bernie's stare. He has to know how Bernie feels about Cas and Dean, because … well, if she can't be accepting, he doesn't want her near them, even for the span of a recon camping trip. In this Sam has resolved that he will give up a chance for a casual sexual encounter to protect his brother's relationship and mental health. _Yeah_ , maybe it's weird being third wheel to his brother and his best friend sometimes, but Sam knows that what they share is keeping them from falling apart, and, _yeah_ , maybe Dean would laugh and call him a romantic, but it makes Sam happy to see his brother bloom under the angel's love.

Wrapped in his own thoughts, Sam doesn't even realize Bernie is standing two feet away with a puzzled look on her face.

"Um, Sam, something bothering you?" Bernie's eyes are assessing.

The Hunter's head snaps up, surprised at her and himself – her for coming so close without him hearing her, and himself for seemingly losing his instincts. "Look, Bernie, I know you saw Dean and Cas. I gotta know, you going to take issue with it?" He's blurting out the question and he knows it, but his brother's still limping after San Antonio and it's cueing up all his own protective instincts.

Her hand is warm and dry as she clasps his hand and draws him over to the comfortable couch.

"Let's sit a minute. I get the feeling we don't want to hurry over there, and I want to talk to you." Rather than jump right in, though, she takes a minute to offer him something to drink, and fussing around getting him a glass of ice tea, as if determining how to begin on her thoughts. "Stop me if I sound too much like a professor here, okay? I want to teach you a Native American word." Drawing a leg beneath her, Bernie settles onto the couch next to him, waiting for him to nod his agreement.

"Berdache," she says is a Native American word for homosexual. "Or _bisexual_ really - men who are thought to live more in touch with the spiritual realm and be of 'two spirits.' The berdache are supposed to be spiritually gifted, more intuitive, nurturing, wise, and skilled." She gives a small snort and a shake of her head. "It doesn't surprise me at all to learn your angel friend is berdache … if it's comparative to Native American beliefs, he _should_ be."

 _Genderless_ , actually, but not anymore. Sam has reached up to smooth his hair again, his hand slightly unsteady, until Bernie captures his hand as he lowers it and tugs on it gently until he makes eye contact, questioning her.

"Am I surprised by your brother? Uh, _no_." Bernie finds she really wants Sam to understand, always dismayed when she stumbles over pockets of Christian Bible angst over something so pure and natural as sex in someone she thought was _too intelligent_ to be that, well, _that stupid_.

"Look, I know you don't want to talk about it, but it doesn't change that I know about it. I've been researching for hunters a few years now, helping keep the archives. You and your brother aren't just hunters; you are as much characters in the Christian Apocalypse story as any of the angels," she adds. "Why wouldn't I expect a human who has been chosen to be the Righteous Man to be spiritually gifted? And an angelic vessel? Like you are too? That's easy math in my mind."

Bernie is happy to see the slow smile spread across the handsome face across from her. She has misjudged his concern. She can read the relief in his eyes and instinctively knows his concern was to protect his brother from what he was afraid she was feeling. She watches his eyes light up when she continues. "How do I feel about those two gorgeous men wanting some time alone together? Maybe a little jealous because, well, they are both pretty hot."

Sam gives a short laugh and pulls back just a little. He enjoys her open sexuality, but he isn't ready to jump into bed with her, yet.

"'More intuitive, nurturing,' that's my brother for sure," Sam says, his love for his brother clear in his hazel eyes. "You know he pretty much raised me since I was six months old. And if you get to spend any real time with him, you'll see he can like… _read_ …people. Okay, so sometimes he does that just to be able to push their buttons, but he can tell how people are feeling and their intent as fast as Castiel used to be able to just plain read their minds." Nurturing might be a smack upside the back of the head or a beer at the right moment, and intuition might be something to be _weaponized_ for obnoxiousness, but that was just Dean being. . . Dean. Sam is happy and excited about what he has learned, so happy that he doesn't see the flicker of concern go across her face.

. . .

It grows dark quickly in Albuquerque in early December, so by the time the two cars carrying three hunters and a TA pull into their campsite they're happy to have the light from the waxing Gibbous moon to help get familiar with their surroundings. The university's campsite, actually, where the professor's students have been keeping watch for monsters under the guise of studying the stars.

The Chevy and the Jeep are parked next to each other, but nose to tail, just west of The Petroglyph National Monument, exactly where Donald Campbell had been snatched by a Thunderbird. The National Park Service runs the monument area where a collection of Native American glyphs, 700-400 years old are carved into volcanic rock. Even when the visitor's center isn't open the area cannot be completely closed off. Bernie walks them a mile into the back-end of the Rinconada Canyon trail where one of the glyphs is of a Thunderbird.

The men are fanning their flashlights over the rocks when Sam starts. "Can you believe that? Looks like some jerks are etching their own names and tagging these rocks," he complains. "How could anyone do that to a National Monument?"

Castiel peers at Sam suspiciously, then he turns to Dean. "Is he being serious, Dean? Because all of this," he says gesturing to include the monument, "is graffiti. Some is just older than others."

Bernie falls into step with Castiel as they head back to their cars. Dean and Sam listen as the two get into a rather deep theological discussion of similarities and differences of Christian and Native American beliefs. "I miss this sometimes," Sam says softly to Dean.

"Which this do you miss?" And Dean shakes his own head at that one, muttering that he feels like that line from Buffy.

"You can't brain today?" Sam asks with insincere sympathy. "You have the dumb?"

The two brothers share a smile over the pop reference thrown and caught. Sam feels good to be able to have a light-hearted moment with Dean. No death, near death, angst, or even excessive drinking. This morning was rough and he had been worried his brother would get caught in that spiral of self-loathing that talk of the Apocalypse can cause any of them.

"…the academic talks about esoterica."

"Yeah, well, some people's esoterica is another person's Tuesday." Dean answers, gruffly.

Once they leave the rocky canyon trail all flashlights are turned off, allowing their eyes to adjust to the low light conditions. They've opted for sandwiches - which are stacked with Sam's OCD neatness in the cooler along with apples and bottles of water. Next to the cooler, there's a large thermos of coffee with four metal cups. Unlike the undergraduate students, the Winchesters know not to treat a monster stakeout like a camping trip. This is business.

It's still early as Bernie and Sam take up a lookout position on the luggage rack of the jeep while Dean and Cas stretch out on the hood of the Impala to watch the skies in the opposite direction. Both sets of watchers have a sleeping bag under them, and blankets wrapped around their shoulders to ward off the sudden cold of a desert night. But this too is just practical, and the hunters' guns are outside the blankets where they will not be tangled if needed.

They hunker down, watching the stars and the skies to wait.

It's not even midnight when the roar of thunder splits the cloudless sky.


	4. Chapter 4

_Wingspan 50 or 55 feet_ , Dean catalogues. _Height, maybe six feet,_ w _ings – fully functional_. T _ail, yep, but short in comparison to the wingspan, like a long skirt in the back; feathers dark...some dark color, not completely black. Looks womanly shaped, maybe, all covered in feathers, but definitely person, not animal-legs, plus, breasts – also feathered. Almost a collar of white feathers around its neck like one of those lace ruffs in the old movies. Damn, comes to a knife fight well prepared, looking at eight talons – each as long as a machete. Eyes are like an eagle – golden and flashing._

The wings clap together in front of the monster.

THUNDER.

 _Yep, this must be a Thunderbird_.

It has only been seconds, but Dean keeps his mental list of how to describe a monster attack as he raises his model 1911 .45 and fires off three slugs toward center mass. His lifetime of training keeps him focused both on the action of the encounter, and on the aspects of the creature he is fighting.

If knowledge of monsters is any kind of education, Dean figures he and Sammy are professors by now, so adding another new monster to his list of encounters always makes him aware of basics again.

"If it bleeds, we can kill it," Dean shouts over to his brother.

It is all taking place so swiftly that it is only as the third report finishes its echo that the three hunters are on their feet, having grouped together in front of the Impala, blankets and sleeping bags kicked aside to keep them from tangling around someone's feet.

Dean motions Cas towards Bernie, and his angel understands, giving a silent nod. Cas has been tasked now with keeping the civilian safe, and he pulls her down into a crouch between the cars, reaching up to open the jeep door and pushing her inside, forceful but gentle. Cas has been given a second job as well; he has a good digital Nikon SLR in hand pre-set for low light conditions. He braces against the jeep with the camera in front of his eye, brow furrowed in concentration. His job is to keep pointing it up and taking photos, knowing swinging the camera around will only produce blurry photos, like the Campbell boy's or the earlier newspaper photo.

The brothers stand back-to-back with shoulders almost touching as each scans his portion of the sky. Their two-handed grip holding the weapons up and steady to protect each other and their third partner, whose task will prevent him from doing it himself.

"Sammy, I'll cover you. Let's try shotgun – with specials - and a rifle, blessed silver bullets." The Winchesters have a special mix they use in their monster shotguns, they re-load shells with salt, iron filings, and blessed silver shavings. They like to have something ready for when they're not sure what'll work.

The brothers step to the back of the Impala where Sam opens it and ducks in to get the suggested long guns. Dean has to step away from the Impala as he tries to keep a 360 watch on the dark sky. Sam's head is still inside the Chevy when another concussive thunderclap makes him jerk back, banging his head on the inside of the trunk.

Dean gives a brief yelp, but fires off three more rounds into the darkness above them. "Damn, Sam. Is this thing that fast or did it go all Susan Storm on us?" He feels blood dripping from his head, and he's hoping it's the monster's not his. He can see his brother as Sam hands him the rifle, covering them with the shotgun as Dean slips the handgun away and shoulders the Remington.

"Cas? You okay?" Dean asks because in a firefight it's always best to know the position of your friends and foes, and he's lost sight of the angel.

"I'm fine, Dean. I am not the one with blood running down my face. That would be you and Sam," exasperation is evident in Cas's tone.

THUNDER.

Dean and Sam both open fire this time. There's a flurry above them, a pained screech and several feathers fall, but then it's gone.

For now at least.

They wait a painfully long time before the tension dissipates, sure now that it's not a feint or a trick, before Sam hands the shotgun to his brother and goes over to carefully collect the feathers from the ground. He checks for blood as well. Cas picks up blankets and sleeping bags, shaking them out and bundling them into the car. Dean collects the first aid kit as the four gather together in the Impala. The brothers place the first aid bag between them in the front seat, turn on the inside light and start assessing the injuries on each other's heads while Castiel and Bernie examine the feathers.

It doesn't take long to clean and assess Sam's head injury. It's a bump and a cut, but head wounds bleed pretty badly. Dean wipes antibiotic ointment on it, and tapes a gauze pad to it. "You'll be good as new in a minute," he says with a crooked grin. "Not much in there to get hurt anymore."

"Thank you, Doctor Sexy," Sam cracks dryly. "Now it's your turn. Slide your head back and sit still. I'm gonna put in a few stitches. Good thing it wasn't me," Sam adds. Dean is looking up at his brother and he can see Sam wants him to ask why, so he doesn't – Sam shouldn't be so obvious, the older brother thinks.

That doesn't stop the angel in the back seat from asking why though. "Because I'm taller. It would have done a lot more than just scratch me."

"Just a scratch, huh?" Dean asks, readying another pop reference as he says it Monty Python style, until he decides to clamp his mouth shut so he doesn't make any unmanly sounds as his brother starts the first of the seven stitches he will use to close the gash.

Bernie takes advantage of the break in the banter to ask a question. "Um, guys, I know I've never been on a hunt before, but do you always try to kill whatever it is before even finding out for sure what it is, or why it's doing what it's doing?" Her boss has encouraged her to find out as much as she can about the Winchesters and Castiel.

"Yeah, that's us. We're just the grunts they call in to kill'em," Dean grumps. "We're the exterminators for dangerous shit the police aren't equipped to handle. The Exterminators, hey, Sam - we should have a theme song."

Sam looks at him, and with a complete deadpan expression he says, "Who you gonna call?"

"I call dibs on Venkman!" Dean says, throwing up his arm, only to have his brother patiently move it back down with a stern look. He's trying to sew this guy's head up, after all.

"I don't understand that reference," Castiel says –very seriously. "That thing - that Thunderbird, _which is most certainly not angelic_ \- killed someone," Cas interjects, turning to look directly at the tall woman sitting next to him. "It attacked _us_ without stopping to ask _us_ why we were there. It is _enough_ that Dean and Sam have always put their lives on the line to protect innocents. They should not try to form some type of catch and release program for monsters."

"He's _definitely_ Spengler," Dean says, grinning and pointing at his brother. "Let's find a copy of it to show him … That'll make you Stantz, the wordy optimist geek. Hell, I think it makes us copy cats. Nah, I think dad had already started the family business before it came out."

"You know that Venkman's portrayed as a slut and a con-man," Sam asks his brother. Cas snorts, and Dean looks at him from the corner of his eye - without moving his head this time - and wonders if his angel's been taking lessons in bitchface from his brother.

"My baby's much cooler, though than the Ghostbusters truck." Dean offers a silly grin. "God, do you remember how much Dad _hated_ that movie?"

Bernie is looking back and forth at the two brothers, disconcerted. She didn't see anything so frivolous in them earlier and is puzzled by it now. "Do you always resort to silly pop culture references?"

She gets two yesses and a snort in answer. Cas saying he doesn't always get the movie references either, but now that Sam has finished sewing up his brother's head, he turns to look at Bernie as he packs up the medical kit. "In the middle of stitching my brother's head - in a car - in the middle of nowhere – without anesthesia? Yes, we'll discuss anything that'll help us get our minds off the reality of the situation."

Bernie blushes faintly and dips her head in apology. "Oh, of course, I wasn't thinking. I guess it just really rattled me, all the shooting." She raises her head up to look him in the eye. "I'm sorry."

"Hey, it's okay." Dean says. "You did _good_ for a first timer." Then he throws in that patented Dean Winchester no-holds-bar, sex-you-up look that has relieved women of their panties all across America, and Sam decides he better step in before Cas kills his brother, because if looks could kill, his brother would be dead, again. Or come to think of it, before Sam can kill him because he knows his brother is not oblivious to Sam's interest in the TA.

"Well, if it's any consolation, we usually do all the research before a hunt ourselves. It's not like we come in blind and _start shooting_." Sam's willing to explain, but he doesn't want her to oversimplify what they were doing out there tonight.

"I guess I'm still trying to figure out what you consider monsters, and what is a person who is, umm, other than human," she stumbles a little. "Do you _automatically_ kill something because it isn't human? I guess that's what I'm getting at." Bernie wishes she had a way to record the answers, but she's going to do her best to remember every word.

The Winchesters share a look, answering this gets assigned to Sam. Castiel moves closer to the door, and stills, hands fisted on his knees.

"We've gone around on this very topic quite a few times, actually," Sam starts, easily falling into the guest lecturer mode he took on in San Antonio. "We've pretty much decided that if it is supposed to be dead, like a ghost or a vengeful spirit, we'll make it dead or inert."

He's starting with the easy stuff, slowly working onto more difficult concepts. "Then, if whatever it is _is_ evil, like killing innocent people, we'll kill it." Sam takes a deep breath, considering what else to add. "We generally only get wind of the things that are out of control, like Wendigos, shapeshifters, or weres that're causing trouble. Or here, with the Thunderbird, some cattle mutilations and weird sightings, then the murder."

Sam is ticking off points in his head, knowing that there are some parts of this that he and his brother will not agree on, and parts that will hurt his friend. But, this is a legitimate question from someone who was willing to hand over all her research over to them. Seems like a fair exchange to him. And maybe he wouldn't mind impressing her a bit.

"If it's an evil god from some pantheon, we might try to kill it, but that's not easy to do – so we try banishing spells. Sent Osiris off to sleep for 200 years. I lost track of who killed what when a bunch of the old gods gathered in the Hotel California." Sam is still musing, trying to give her a fair idea of the rules they live by. Hmmm, if it's a _baby evil thing_ , then no. We don't kill babies."

"No to Reapers, cause they're just doing their job, part of the natural order. Also _no_ to things, like this one vamp nest we found where they didn't drink human blood."

"They were _vegetarians_ ," snorts Dean, deciding he'd weigh in too. "We have a few problem areas. One is witches. I mean most of them are people, so whenever possible it's best to let the police handle it. We don't need to end up in prison for ganking a witch….even if they're creepy and always spewing bodily fluids everywhere. Psychics, same thing. As long as they aren't _killin' people with their brains_ we leave'em be. Hmmm, fairies, leprechauns, case by case. I did nuke a tinker-belle thing in the microwave once, but she was asking for it."

Mouth open, Bernie looks stunned, again. Dean, crooked grin in place, reminds her they have been doing this for a long time.

Sam clears his throat to get the pretty TA's attention again. He has come up with another example of the moral ambiguity. "Demons are a real problem. At first, we didn't realize they were just occupying human bodies – that sometimes the human is still in there and save-able. When possible, we try to exorcise the demon, but honestly, they are damned hard to fight. Really powerful. We are usually doing our best just to live through those encounters."

"I don't know," Dean says. "Sometimes lately we're a little stab-happy with the demons too. But I'm okay with that. Demons almost always mess things up for the people they ride. Occasionally we end up working with a demon for the 'greater good.' Or Cause their enemy is our enemy too. But demons'll lie just to lie." Dean shakes his head. "Sammy, you need to write this all down somewhere. Make it fit on the back of a business card."

Before Dean can get the subject completely off track, Bernie intervenes. "This really is fascinating to me, _really_. What you do. How casually you can talk about it. It's astounding. In the histories, we try to keep up with confirmed kills, and types of creatures involved, but we don't have complete records on your dad, Bobby Singer, or you two. I would love to write it all down for you, be your scribe. Or your uncle would."

Dean snorts loudly. " _None of this_ is easy to talk about. This last bunch we just cleaned up…" He starts digging through his pockets for his flask. Takes a swig under his brother's glower. "Stopped being easy when demons got involved – hell – I guess monster hunting's never been easy."

Cas is tense, and still, looking out the window; as the monster in the car, he's uncomfortable with the conversation and he doesn't like how Dean has been looking at this woman. "There is a series of books called _Supernatural_ by a Carver Edlund that you could reference," he gets out before Dean cuts him off.

" _Sonofabitch_ , not them. – Cas, don't tell her about them," Dean is squirming uncomfortably.

"But she seems to be trying to figure your history."

" _Dammit_ , Cas, they're embarrassing. We don't talk about them." Dean turns around and bangs his head – carefully as to not hurt his baby – on the steering wheel. Winces when he remembers he has fresh stitches.

"I don't understand. Popular fiction novels?" She is confused and looks it.

"Like people would believe any of it?" Sam cuts in.

"Carver Edlund is a pen name for the Prophet Chuck Shurley. The Winchester Gospels are based on the five years leading up to the Second Apocalypse," Cas explains. Dean interrupts again.

"It's not all true. He made some of that up." Dean is whining, and then he hisses at Cas. "Not them…Cas, it's embarrassing. I'm full frontal in them."

Sam is enjoying Dean's discomfort about the books. He has his best shit-eating grin on his face. "What was that word you used yesterday, bro?" He quirks his eyebrow. "Was that - _payback_?" Sam teases. But it is what Castiel says next that makes Dean's face blush bright red and reduces Sam to guffaws.

Castiel purses his lips. His eyes are blue steel and intent, giving Dean a measuring look. He captures the summer green eyes that have widened in shock. Then pulls his gaze away to give a complete, slow, sweeping, purposefully eye-sexing look that doesn't spare Dean's modesty. "Full frontal, _hmmm_ , maybe I should _re-read_ them," Castiel licks his lips and lets his deep voice reach resonance. "I don't remember the, ah, descriptive _details_."

The temperature in the car goes up several degrees, and then drops abruptly as Dean's door opens. His voice sounds gruff and distant, "I'll be right back. Gotta take a leak." He escapes into the darkness.

Sam reaches for his forehead, rubbing at the furrow he finds there and realizing that it's his fault. He pushed him. Sam knows his brother well enough to know that things have been moving a little fast for him, and that it scares him.

A scared Dean Winchester can be, well, either scary or reckless. Sam sighs deeply because he helped tease Dean about _it_ – the unnamed but growing more evident daily relationship between Dean and Cas - in front of a near stranger. Sam reaches out to catch Cas's shoulder, stopping him from going out after Dean. "Just give him a minute. He's regrouping."

Bernie looks at him questioningly. "It's just that this is so new to them." He explains as though they are alone in the car, and they may as well be for how turned inward the angel is at the moment.

Castiel thinks that he has just reacted with jealousy to Dean being mildly flirtatious. He struck out in anger at Dean, knowing he was embarrassing him. _How much further can I fall_? He wonders, wishing he could undo the last few minutes.

"Okay," Sam figures he and Cas can kick themselves later. Sam determinedly moves the conversation back on topic. "We've fought against the Deadly Sins, Jinns, the Whore of Babylon, and the Horsemen of the Apocalypse… We beat them all, except Death. Long story, and more Dean's to share than mine."

"And angels, fallen angels, and those pushed out of heaven and thrown into the fiery pit," Castiel's voice is tired and pained. "And we've killed them, so I do not think it matters if your Thunderbird is some kind of winged servant of your gods." Cas's voice is almost too soft to hear. "It didn't matter when we killed my brothers."

The Impala's door creeks open again, and Dean climbs in shivering. "Goddamnit, it's cold out there." He smells like fresh air and bourbon. "Let's turn on some heat." With the car running, Dean looks around at the people in the car. "We done yet with the inquisition?" When no one answers, he nods. "I need my four hours, and I need my pain pill."

Cas takes a prescription bottle out of his pocket and shakes out a pill for Dean and two for him. He opens a bottle of water to swallow his, offering it to Dean after. Dean opens the flask to wash his down, but when Cas reaches for it, he turns it upside down to show it's empty.

Bernie clears her throat, realizing that the brief playful moment earlier was an anomaly for these grim men. "Sorry if this is just too nosy, but why're you taking narcotics?" Dean gives that fake chuckle and a wry grin.

"Well, I got my ass kicked pretty bad in San Antonio a few weeks ago and Cas gets these bad headaches." Dean looks over at Cas, and notices the obvious truth to that statement. He silently directs Sam's gaze too, quirking an eye brow. Sam looks concerned, but gives a small twist of his mouth and a shake of his head. He knows what got into Cas, but that's something those two will have to work out together.

"Have you ever tried more natural remedies for pain relief?" She asks, quickly jumping in to explain. "I have a friend who has an American Indian Church just north of the city. She does a lot to help people with pain management – our church – our religion – is more about being in balance with the natural and spiritual worlds." She's rushing her words a little. "I'd love to take you, if you'd like to try it."

Something bleeps on Dean's person radar, but he studies her face and can't figure out what has set off a bell with him. Dean shrugs and says maybe Cas and him will try that. Then without meaning to, he gives a huge yawn.

"Bernie, why don't you and Sam head back into town, Cas and I will split the watch here for the rest of the night. If that's okay with everyone…" he trails off. "You could take the camera and see if you can do your magic photo stuff – get us a clear shot, Sammy."

Dean wants her gone, and he throws his brother at her mercilessly. Maybe he'll stop being such a bitch if he gets laid. As Bernie and Sam gather their things to leave, Cas moves to the front seat – coffee thermos and two cups in hand.

The tin coffee cup offered to Dean as he stares out the front window is a peace offering and an apology in one, and after a tense moment Dean wraps his hands around the mug, letting his fingers graze Castiel's.

"I hate those books." Dean remarks idly, only half addressing the topic between them as the jeep's engine revs behind them, and Bernie and his brother disappear.

"I know." Of course Dean hated them. He was the _hero_ in them.


	5. Chapter 5

Bernie and Sam set up their laptops side by side in the dining area of the guys' hotel suite, Sam hooking up the Nikon to download photos, Bernie furiously typing notes of what she saw and heard, both drinking the beers Sam snags from the refrigerator for them. They work, mostly in silence, side by side as Sam finds raw photos that will best show wingspan, talons, and figure overall. His brother's camera pre-sets, coupled with Cas's resolve when the creature attacked, have produced the first good, usable photos of a Thunderbird.

"Do you understand that this is proof?" Bernie asks. "Proof other species exist. Incontrovertible proof for my Cultural Mythology study?"

Sam grins at her enthusiasm, and feels a little bad at what he has to say next. "You can't use it." Okay, maybe a little blunt, but true anyway.

"What? Why?" Bernie is stuttering, emotions flitting across her face faster than Sam can read them. "Is it because they're yours, I mean, I know that. I'll credit you if you'd like . . . I guess I don't understand." She has turned to face him and there're only inches between them. Sam lifts his hand and gently slides it behind her ear on her neck, his thumb gently stroking under the braid of dark hair, soothing her agitation.

"Because they'll think you're crazy." He turns sideways on the chair, still gently cradling her head in his palm, hazel eyes serious. "Because you deserve to be respected and admired in your field, not ridiculed." He has her complete attention, sees at this close distance when what he is saying registers as truth by the acceptance in her eyes. His hand shifts on her head, and Sam's thumb is now tracing her cheekbone, as he makes eye contact again. "I'm going to kiss you now - if that's okay?"

Her mouth quirks as she closes the gap, "Are you going to narrate everything?"

**. . .**

The sun has risen, but it's early morning still when Dean slings the duffel holding their weapons across the living area and sets a drink carrier of coffees and a bag of breakfast sandwiches on the coffee table. Cas follows him into the hotel suite, carrying the cooler and wondering where he's supposed to set it down with computers and equipment all over the table. Dean kicks some of Sam's clothing out of the way so Cas can get into the small gallery kitchen. Sam's clothing and … Dean picks up a bra with his booted foot, gesturing from it to Cas, quirking an eyebrow and generally looking very amused. "That's not his size," he says, getting a gleeful look on his face as he moves closer to the closed bedroom door.

"I'm not your laundry service, bro," he calls out, thinking how many times his brother has said something similar in their years of sharing hotel rooms. Then he thumps his fist on Sam's bedroom door. "Rise and shine, Sammy. C'mon out for coffee?" he hollers through the closed door. "I promise not to look if you need to come out here to get your clothes, Bernie."

Cas huffs. "He really won't," he calls out, surprised by the laughter on Dean's face at his remark. It has just occurred to Dean what happened last night when Cas had wounded him with his words. He moves closer to Cas, catching him around the waist with one hand and drawing him in closer to hear his whisper.

" _Jealous_ , Cas? Really? I'm the green-eyed one here." Touching his forehead to Cas's, Dean gently runs his thumb over his dark-haired friend's slightly chapped lips. "No need," he adds, and kisses the corner of his angel's mouth before turning away to shrug out of his coat and over shirts, dropping them on the backs of chairs before kicking off his boots into a corner.

Dean plops onto the loveseat, looking as boneless and effortlessly comfortable as a cat, and then grabs his coffee with lazy grace. A very smug cat thinks Cas, as he carefully removes and hangs up his jacket, turning to gather and hang Dean's clothing as well.

Dean has been tracking Cas as he fusses around the room, a small half-smile on his face _. Cas was jealous?_ He muses. _Of me and what? what did I do?_ He scootches down a little on the couch, leaving space for Cas next to him, and pats the cushion in invitation. It looks like he is offering to snuggle until he rattles the whole room by pounding on the wall between the living area and the bedroom where his brother is. "You awake in there? We're not interrupting anything are we? Breakfast time."

Sam's tousled head peeks out the bedroom door first. He has a towel wrapped around his waist as he tries not to look like he is scurrying to collect up his and Bernie's clothing, grabs his duffel, "Phone call first might have been nice," he hisses at his brother, closing the door behind him again.

Cas finishes adding sugar to his morning coffee (not that he's counting, but Dean is sure it was at least four packets) and sits down on the other cushion of the love seat when Bernie and Sam - fully clothed – join them, turning the chairs from the dining space so that the four of them are now seated with the coffee table between them.

"So, what's the emergency, Dean? The Thunderbird attack again?" Sam asks his older brother.

"No, but we did find some blood too far away to be mine," Dean says. "So it's corporeal. Feathers are dark browns and blacks. Not sharp like razors. I'm thinking we should try for beheading it as the best all-around method of making things stay dead. What about the photos? Cas get off a good shot?"

Sam spins slightly on his chair, wakes the laptop behind him and hands it over opened to the three photos he has saved of the attack. "Good job keeping the camera steady, Cas." Sam means that sincerely. Agreeing to be in the middle of a monster attack armed only with a camera isn't an easy task.

"Let's get today planned, so I know whether I have time for a nap," Dean kept watch the rest of the night at the attack site, allowing Cas to nap in the Impala. He doesn't know how much sleep his brother has had either, but he figures if they plan ahead maybe everyone will have a little bit of time to catch up on sleep. Dean wants to get things organized and get Bernie on her way. _I'm glad Sammy's getting some_ , Dean thinks, _but there's something about Bernie that gives me the creeps_.

The professor is coming by this morning to get updates. Sam says. Bernie wants to take Cas to meet the Shaman of her church, discuss the possible connection between Thunderbirds and angels. There's also something about pain management with that visit, so Dean opts into going with Cas. He's been worried about Castiel's drug use, wants to see if the group has something useful to offer. The weapons they used last night need cleaning and Sam says they must also come up with some sort of netting, so they can snare the Thunderbird long enough to behead it.

"When will Campbell be here," Dean asks, and when Sam says about two hours, Dean calls dibs on the shower. Then says he figures he can get a nap in while Cas and Sam shower after him. Bernie says she'll be back in two hours, and leaves.

"Rude, much, Dean?" Sam asks, because it seems obvious to him that Dean purposely was trying to make Bernie uncomfortable. Dean looks at his tall, obviously recently sated, baby brother, and shrugs.

"Well, you two are obviously hitting it off, Sammy. Knockin' your boots together, like they say around here. And god knows I don't care if you get laid, but there's something about her that doesn't feel right." Dean's blunt about it, but Sam can see in the furrowed brow and worried look that Dean isn't trying to needle him. He sighs, Dean's instinct has been right too often for him to dismiss the warning.

"Let me see if I can find out what they really want."

"You had to wait 'til I slept with her to warn me?" he grumps, with a classic bitchface look.

"Wanted you to get laid, Sammy boy, get rid of some tension" Dean smirks at him. "But should 'a figured it - Your track record an' all."

Sam throws a wadded up napkin at him. "Thanks, jerk. I have noticed that you're a lot less tense lately."

"Bitch."

**. . .**

Knocking at the door of the suite wakes all three of the guys a couple hours later, and when Sam answers it both Bernie and Professor Campbell are standing there with coffee and donuts held out as offerings. Sam ushers them in to the living area where Cas, looking completely put together, is waiting on the love seat. Sam excuses himself to wash up, turning his head to ask the angel if Dean was awake yet.

"Hold your horses, Princess, I'll be right out," Dean answers from the bathroom. He strolls out still pulling on his t-shirt, barefoot, with his jeans hanging low on his hips. His ribs still bear the marks of healing bruises from his beating in San Antonio, yellows and dark browns now where they had been blacks, reds and blues before. He's obviously hurrying, not controlling the limp as well as usual, and his hair is mussed. The stitches fresh and the wound red against his dark blond hair.

Dean's shirt sleeve is mostly inside out. Before Cas can offer to help, Sam steps over to tug the sleeve into place, hiding the handprint that is still prominent on his brother's upper arm. That will _always be_ prominent in Sam's mind. "Professor, Bernie," Dean greets them, looking around the room for his flannel shirt before spotting where Cas has hung it. He pulls it on, and asks if he can have one of the coffees.

"What," he asks Cas, who has been watching him with a frown, noticing the still healing bruises, the stitches, the limp, seeing the intense looks of interest from the strangers in the room at the mark _he_ left on Dean when _he_ pulled him from the pit. Castiel is feeling very protective suddenly, on alert, and the serious look he gives Dean has him wondering what the hell is going on. He wipes at his mouth. "Is it drool?"

"Where's your leg brace, Dean?" It ought to be eerie with the two of them talking at the same time, but Dean laughs at them both. "Hen pecked in stereo, before coffee," he gestures with the cup at the two men. "Relax, Frances, Samantha, I'll sit down, okay." He slips onto the love seat next to Cas.

Their legs touch from sitting next to each other, nothing overt, yet the connection calms Castiel down. His Grace connects them. He is still on alert, but not as tense. Dean can tell that without even looking at him. He slurps some coffee. Sam is also drinking coffee now too, hip propped on the dining room table, long legs stretched out.

"Sorry if I was a little rough on you yesterday, Professor." Dean turns on the charm, the charismatic con-man mode. Cas and his brother recognize it, but the professor and TA haven't seen it before. They're as suckered in as most people are by the elder Winchester. "I'm a little short-tempered these days. I, urmm, apologize. No matter what your brother did to me, you didn't do anything to deserve that."

Professor Campbell seems happy with the peace offering from Dean. He says Bernie has caught him up on the attack and the findings. "I'd really like it if you would think about calling me Uncle Price." He gets out before deciding not to push too soon. "And it looks like we were lucky to get off without another death. Looking at your wound, if you guys hadn't been there, if it was just more students I sent to watch, we may have lost another person, so first – thank you."

"No need," Dean mutters. He doesn't have to fake this part; he has never been comfortable with the appreciation of the few people who bother to thank them. "I should 'a ducked faster." He gives a small half-shrug. "Getting old I guess."

Professor Campbell smiles at him. "You look," he says, chokes a little and starts over. "You look so much like your momma. I don't know what my brother could have been thinking," the professor's voice cracks again; he shakes his head and swallows. Sam pats him on the shoulder, comfortingly. The professor looks up at him and says, "I guess you must take after your daddy, Sam."

Sam clears his throat. "We were too much alike sometimes."

The professor nods his head. That's a family dynamic he is familiar with. "First, I'd like to see the photos, then find out what you Hunters need to finish the job," Campbell continues, "But I'd like to talk a little bit about what it is your family can do for you. See if we can find a way to work together after this."

They get the nuts and bolts out of the way first. Professor Campbell is thrilled with the photos and has them emailed to him. He promises to procure the materials for the weighted net – send Bernie out to meet a contact and tells her to hurry back this afternoon.

He insists on handing over an envelope with cash in it to the boys, sets it on the table when none of them reach for it. He tells them the rest of the network _always_ picks up the tab for Hunters called in. Tells them they should come see a medic he has on standby.

"Well, that all sounds pretty good," Dean tries to hide his suspicions. "I guess I just don't get why if Hunters are so well looked after by the Campbell Clan my dad didn't take you all up on it."

Campbell nods. He knows this question has been coming. The family knows they will have to answer for what they decided. "Could I get you all to just sit still a moment while I tell you a bit about what happened? Uninterrupted?"

The Campbell family business has revolved around hunting the Supernatural for as far back as they can trace. By the 1970s, they started specializing more. Samuel and Deanna had pretty much took off on their own when Mary was young because the family didn't want Mary to be forced to hunt.

"See with us – it's _aptitude_ and _choice_. Mary had the aptitude, from a hunting family on both sides after all, but Samuel was a rebel. Making her hunt. Starting her so young – she was still in high school. After her parents died, she told the family to leave her alone –didn't even want us at the funeral. Said she wanted nothing to do with us, married a civilian. Refused to let the few cousins she saw even speak about ghosts, hauntings, or demons. We really wish she hadn't been so successful." Campbell is shaking his head again, takes a gulp of his cooling coffee.

Dean makes noises of agreement, encourages the Professor to continue.

"When that yellow-eyed demon attacked -that night of the fire in your nursery, Sam. He attacked every relative anywhere near Kansas. He decimated your close family. And I mean that literally. Most likely killed one in ten. It took a little while for the family to re-group. But by then, there were rumors flying through the official communication networks. Rumors of Sam, here, being demon spawn."

"Didn't matter. We offered John Winchester a safe place to raise you. Figured we could keep an eye on Sam there. But your daddy wanted to hunt, and he refused to wait until we could train him. Refused to let us raise you boys in a safe place. He took off into his own little network. Pastor Jim, Caleb, Bobby Singer, the Harvelles. Good people, but not family. They helped him keep you two away from us."

"Would we have taken you away from your daddy? The answer is – in a heartbeat. We like to keep our kids safe and ignorant for as long as possible. They think the physical fitness, the shooting, archery, and Latin, are all just part of our home schooling curriculum. Please realize that your dad loved you guys and thought we would just take you away and he would never see you again. Who knows how it might have played out, because all we wanted was to keep you safe."

Sam and Dean are fidgeting a little. The professor hope that means they are at least considering the other side of the picture John must have painted for them.

"When the signs started for the second Apocalypse, and then there was The Rise of the Witnesses, Hunters in the family were hit hard. Decimated is not a good enough word because after that, we had maybe one-third of the number of hunters we started with."

The professor drains his cup. "You boys are a valuable commodity. We could use your help training new hunters. Family Board wants to meet with you."


	6. Lonely Stranger

_I must be invisible; No one knows me._

_I have crawled down dead-end streets, on my hands and knees._

_I was born with a raging' thirst, A hunger to be free,_

_But I've learned through the years. Don't encourage me._

_'Cause I'm a lonely stranger here, well beyond my day._

_And I don't know what's goin' on So I'll be on my way._

"Lonely Stranger" by Eric Clapton

Dean escapes with Bernie when she comes back; _escapes_ , there's no other word for it. He hears Professor Campbell out – no way is he calling him _Uncle_ Price, the only uncle he has ever had is Bobby – hanging around long enough to think of what he'd heard.

The Capos of the Campbell Hunting Clan mafia want a meet; y _eah_ , he'd put _that_ on his calendar. Wonder if they've ever heard the term _too little, too late_? Where were they all those years without Christmases or birthdays? When he stole food because his brother was hungry? When we were _kids_ who needed a _home_? Now – they _need_ us – and I'm supposed to give a damn about them? Dean's so mad; he's trembling and trying not to let it show.

Sam tries to stop him from leaving, or at least slow him down with puppy dog eyes and a look of desperation; but Dean and Cas bundle Bernie right back out the door when she returns with materials to build a net big enough to weigh down a Thunderbird. Sammy can handle building that without him. He can plan his _whole frikkin' future_ with the Campbell family without him.

Dean couldn't handle if Sammy _wanted_ _this_ right now. This Campbell family hunting thing – like Sammy did the whole time Dean thought he was locked in the cage down in hell. Maybe teaching the next generation would suit _Sammy_. But Dean? No thanks – Besides, where's room for his angel in that picture? Would Cas become something for them to study? An oddity for their collections?

Before Dean takes off with Bernie and Cas, though, he takes the time to walk over to Sam and give him the car keys, turning his little – okay, _younger_ \- brother's palm over to place the keys there, and then reaching up to ruffle his hair. Both gestures as affectionate as the Winchester gets when the world isn't ending or one of them hasn't just returned from the dead. "We'll talk later," Dean mumbles.

Dean has just requested a time to _talk_ , Sam's astonished – okay, not really. Sam was watching his brother more than he was the professor, and while Dean's poker face might be legendary, it doesn't fool the guy who grew up with him. Sam shakes his head, everything the professor said, and he can tell his brother is mostly upset that his little brother could have had – should have had – a more stable home life than Dean had made for him.

Dean wants to understand how those words affect his brother, so he'll get out and be calmer later when he talks about it. _Damnit, damnit, damnit_. Sammy could have had that normal life he craved from start to finish, and that breaks Dean's heart because he has always wanted Sammy to be happy, to be safe. Dean tried the apple pie life and was going through the motions - only partly alive. Maybe it could have been different, if he had had a more stable life growing up. "Too many what ifs," is all he can get to come out in words to the professor.

The professor nods his head. He was feeling the same way yesterday when he learned what his brother Samuel Campbell had done. He'll give them time, these great nephews of his who have faced more than he has ever dealt with.

**. . .**

It's called the Unitarian Native American Path of Beauty, which is a long name for an adobe building with an old-fashioned design, thick walls that almost feel like they are weeping and windows set high in the walls, where the summer sun cannot pound in them like iron onto an anvil. The priestess who greets them is a tall, lean, older Navajo woman wearing a skirt and blouse. A metal conch belt, bracelets, and several necklaces, coral, turquoise, and lapis lazuli make her outfit appear festive. She welcomes Bernie warmly with a hug, and Bernie introduces the two men.

"I greet you with trepidation." Sandra Billy is blunt. "We try to stay in balance with the spirit world here, and you have agitated them. Yet, it is my honor, as a simple priestess to meet one of the Christian angels and the Righteous Man." Dean almost doesn't get through the door after that statement, shooting a concerned look at Cas, and openly glaring at Bernie.

"Oh, don't be angry with Bernadette, please. She only answers my least nosy questions, but having you two nearby has created a dissonance in our normal spirit realm. They speak to me. It seems, Dean Winchester, that you have ended the existence of many spirits, but your aura is blue – a spiritual color – but like a prism. I have never seen that before."

Dean doesn't know what to say to that. Auras? "Um, me neither."

The priestess is still shuffling them into the building and down a hallway, gripping their elbows, and Dean is starting to wonder whether he shouldn't be running for the door. New age hippy shit. _Just great_. But, hey, maybe she'd pull out some weed. He understands it's legal for use in religious ceremonies. Only maybe not with Cas here. 'Course marijuana is about the least of Cas's problems with drugs. Somehow his not-very-astute-to-most-human-things angel has built himself quite a drug supply: uppers, downers, pain killers, anti-anxiety, anti-depression, and who the hell knows fuck-all. They all try to pretend they have secrets, but it's hard to hide your stash when you live out of a duffle bag and share a motel room.

Does this lady ever shut up, he wonders as she turns to address Cas. "And Castiel, your aura is red and black with the deaths you have caused amongst your own kindred." When Cas's face falls into despair, she clucks at him and shakes his elbow. "It will be well. I do not feel evil intent in you."

Sandra has led them to a room, about 300 square feet, rectangular. Like the rest of the building, the windows were rectangular slits set high in the walls. One small corner has a two-burner stove and a small refrigerator. Other than that corner, the room is lined with wide comfortable couches. Dean is eyeing everything skeptically, but he's planning to stick it out to help Cas. "I would like you to take off as much as you are comfortable with. I keep the room warm."

As she goes over to start a kettle and a pot of water, she asks Bernie to go with her. They put their heads together to talk briefly before Bernie leaves the room. Dean and Castiel take off jackets; Dean was going to leave it at that, but Cas takes off his own socks and shoes and he doesn't want Castiel to turn that slightly fussy demeanor on him. Besides, it gives him a chance to see if Cas is okay with this.

At Sandra's urging, the guys tuck all their weapons into their coats, along with their belts. Clad in jeans and T-shirts only, Dean and Cas patter closer to Sandra near the stove, sitting next to each other, and gazing up at her.

"Um, Sandra, Bernadette tells us you can help with pain management. To help us not need narcotic pain pills. So, umm, I gotta tell you, I'm a little nervous here…" Where Dean was heading, he doesn't remember, but at slight urging from the matronly woman, he quiets. She is studying them intently.

"That's strange," Sandra says. "You two are connected... May I?" She has barely said the words before she brushes Castiel's hair from his forehead and places her palm on it, and frowns. Beneath her hand, Castiel stares up at her with the remote, impassive look of his former Grace: how many times had Dean watched him palm someone's forehead, smite demons and heal wounds, and he watches Sandra with a wariness that convinces Dean something is going on beyond what he's seeing. "You appear human, but you are not of the people of the Mother Goddess. I am not sure how much help I will be able to give you."

Well, that put a damper on the idea of this helping Cas. Dean's nearly convinced himself that he's heard enough and is ready to go, when she continues, sliding her gaze towards Dean. "Neither of you is whole without the other anymore. Castiel has anchored himself to this plane through you. Perhaps I can read him through your connection, to better help." She reaches her hand toward Dean, and Castiel tenses further: if he was wary at being palmed, he's bristling at that hand reaching for Dean. "Are you completely human, Dean Winchester?"

"Pretty sure, yeah." And maybe his voice isn't quite as steady as he'd like, but he's startled and doesn't much like old ladies are groping him. Castiel rests his hand on the back of Dean's, calming him immediately, and the fallen angel's eyes are still fixed on Sandra as she reaches for the Winchester, as if he's prepared to break her fragile, bracelet-laden wrist if she looks like she's preparing to hurt Dean. Dean's eyes go from narrowed in distrust to wide and round as a child's on Christmas morning after Sandra places her hand on his head. It's like she has reached into his head and touched upon every good memory he has of his mother. There aren't many, but they are some of his most cherished. He is not even aware that he is crying until Sandra Billy wipes away tears with her thumb.

Cas asks with a growl what happened, and it is Dean's turn to sooth. "It's okay, Cas, it's like she was waking up all my good memories of my mom." Cas, gives a brief nod. This was acceptable.

"You are!" She sounds overjoyed. "Oh, you are one of the Mother's special children – you are pure inside, innocent. You have been cleansed by fire and trial. And you were born with a spark of the divine. She has been searching for you."

Dean's happy to hear he's completely human - (He has been afraid he left too much of his humanity behind when he broke in the pit. Shattering so badly that he no longer knew himself.) – Well, human with a divine spark, sounds nice, but he thinks she just said he was immature. He's already planning to swear Cas to secrecy, though. He knows he'll never hear the end of it from Sam to have been labeled as a special child. Cutting his eyes to Cas, he watches Castiel notice his look and school his features into something less. . . suspicious.

Jealous, Dean had called him. This isn't jealousy. It's protectiveness: Castiel is fully aware of how beautiful Dean Winchester's soul is. He had held it in his hands and coaxed it back to life. If they're supposed to be relaxing, Castiel has failed utterly.

"Cas. You're missing the point of the exercise." The memories have left him lighter, filled him with something he'd nearly forgotten, and he turns his hand in Castiel's to squeeze his palm.

"She's. . . _palming_ you." Castiel's is a level of indignation reserved for if she'd tried to tuck singles into his waistband, and Dean can't keep a straight face any more.

"Could be worse." Reaching over, Dean presses two fingertips to Castiel's forehead indicatively. "She could be fingering me."

Castiel swings his gaze back to Dean, eyes narrowing, and after a moment he shakes his head and lets the thread of suspicion fade, with Dean's encouragement. "Dean Winchester, you are not as funny as you think you are."

Sandra watches the exchange with a maternal amusement, and each moment of the interaction leaves both of them more relaxed, as she needs them, and less resistant to the spiritual realm. Their interactions only further the effect: when she asks Dean when he feels the most relaxed, he lowers his eyes and seems to flush, darting annoyed glances at Castiel when his friend shakes with silent laughter at his pointedly averted gaze. "Shut up, Cas." He hisses. But even if Cas doesn't say a word, his doting look says enough to make the tops of Dean's ears turn red again. "Cut it the hell out, _please_." And Cas tries to look passive again, for Dean.

With a small, indulgent smile and a shake of her head, the elderly woman asks what's his second best method, then. "Alcohol," he answers without hesitation.

"That will not work, as it is alcohol and pills that are poisoning you both. We must help rid your spirits of these poisons with only increase and perpetuate pain. You will both be more in balance." She narrows her eyes at Dean. "We can only work on you - and through you - to help you and your friend. What are you willing to do to help him?"

"Whatever it takes." Dean says it quickly, but that is because it has been their pledge to each other, and Castiel can't help but steal a look at Dean with the words: how much have they justified to themselves and each other, with that mantra? Dean finds this important, and he knows that there is something Dean isn't telling him. And so he will take this as far as Dean allows.

"Then do as I say." Sandra lights a pipe of marijuana and has them share it. She directs Dean to lie on his stomach, and tells Cas to lie on his side next to him and gently rub his back, avoiding the bruises because he must not have any pain right now. Cas stretches out next to Dean, as he gently rubs circles on Dean's back. He can't help softly humming the Led Zeppelin song from the massage the other day.

And Dean, who has hidden his embarrassed face in crossed arms, turns a blissful face toward his angel. "Cas," he whispers loudly. "I think I'm stoned, and you know what? I don't hurt anywhere."

The angel has been letting his connection to Dean, the quiet humming, the feel of Dean's softly freckled shoulder under his palm relax him too. Sandra glances at them both as she finishes fixing cups of tea for them, adding plenty of honey to sweeten the bitter mix. "See, when you relax, your body stops fighting your spirit so much. Without tenseness, you already begin to feel better."

Sandra directs them to sit up to drink the tea. "Do not throw up," she insists. Wrapping his hands around the steaming mug, Dean glances at Castiel and even mellow as he is, he can't help but see the broken shell of an angel Zachariah haunted him with in the future. It reminds him of losing Castiel to pills and orgies and absinthe, and _banging the gongs before the lights go out_. He drinks the horrible tea because of that, and he fumbles trying to tell Cas why, to explain to him what "that dick with wings" had predicted.

He doesn't get far. He isn't coherent enough to convey much.

Sandra's tea is brewed with peyote, and Dean starts showing symptoms of a bad trip quickly. His heart races, his breathing is panicked pants, his pupils dilate, leaving the rest of his orbs a shining deep green. He claws at Cas, trying to get his friend to help him breathe. But Castiel lets him go, pulls away, too caught in his own hallucinations to take care of his friend. Dean starts yelling about bugs crawling on him. He's screaming that rats are chewing on his toes, his feet. Cas grows scared, too, and he sits whimpering.

At that sound, Dean throws himself over Cas. "No, Alastair. No, not Cas! Take me!" Dean is screaming and sobbing, protecting his angel from shadows that are now memories of the pit. His body is convulsing at times, back arching, like he is being stretched beyond endurance on the rack. Neither knows what is real anymore. Shadow women and winged creatures flitter in and out of Dean's consciousness. Calling for help, Dean is reduced to a sobbing heap hiding in the corner between two couches and screaming for Sam, for Cas, for God to save him.

"Dad? Mommy? Don't leave me here." He is drained, broken again, and his next word is softer. "Cas?"

Now his voice is too hoarse, and he passes out, but even then his nightmares and memories do not leave him in peace. Sandra Billy settles beside him and puts her hand back on his forehead, gently coaxing him to lay his head in her lap as she soothes him.

A typical peyote "trip" may last anywhere from several hours to a day, and the hallucinogenic properties of peyote are most noticeable during the first few hours. Perhaps because of the very vices they are attempting to break him of, his increasing tolerance to and dependence upon the drugs usually coursing through his system, two hours later Cas manages to shake off the worst of his trip. Squeezing in behind Dean, Castiel holds him with his arms pinned to his sides because he is still scratching himself, leaving deep gouges, and breathing in sobs. He has not seen Dean's spirit so broken since hell, and Cas doesn't know how he can fix it this time.

Castiel, the loyal soldier who fought on the side of free will, the respectful son who tried to be a better God than his father, the only member of the angelic host who fell because of love … because of a virtue not a sin, does something he knows he is forbidden from doing. Something that his older brother Gabriel has said he can no longer have, the comfort of communicating with his heavenly family. He prays, pleading with the heavens to help him, to lend just a little of their Grace to his strength, to help him not fail completely, through weakness in guarding this man. "Dean is doing this for me. He is trying to fight for me - against my addiction. Please, please help me, Brothers. Please help him."

**. . .**

Sam answers the kind of call he hates the most. Castiel is begging him to come find them. To help them. Dean's not conscious, he whispers. "Please, Sam, he has been begging for you."

Castiel has found the rest of their clothes, the phone in Dean's pocket. He dresses himself and catches Dean's trembling form, but every item is a battle; every touch earns the fearful response of an abused child, flinching away, hiding, lashing out. His eyes unfocused, pained, and - because he is Dean - angry. When Cas pulls the button up shirt on, it is with the hope that it will make it harder for Dean to scratch at himself. He gives up on the boots after Dean almost knocks him out kicking out.

Sam looks like a vengeful god when he crashes into the room where Cas is still trying to coax Dean into warm clothes. With a look of barely contained explosion, Sam drinks in his brother's state. Dean's body back-arching as though he has electrical currents shocking him, a grimace on his face, and when he relaxes momentarily his barely audible voice calling for Sam.

"You dragged him out of Hell, why are you putting him through this now, Cas?" The words are flung with the precision of throwing knives, and each one strikes the angel in the heart. " _Look_ at him. _Look_ at what your goddamned addictions have done to him."


	7. Chapter 7

_The road is long with many a winding turn_

_That lead us to who knows where,_

_who knows where_

_But I'm strong,_

_strong enough to carry him_

_He ain't heavy, he's my brother._

_So on we go…_

"He Ain't Heavy, He's my Brother" by The Hollies

**. . .**

_You dragged him out of Hell, why are you putting him through this now? Look at what your goddamned addictions have done to him._ Castiel feels each syllable of Sam's accusation as though it is branding itself onto his heart, and he does what Sam has asked of him, he looks at what Dean is going through because of _him_ , because of Dean's concern for Castiel. With a pained gasp, Cas gathers Dean closer, tries to shelter him in his arms.

Sam stands there torn. He means every word he said to the fallen angel, but he knows it isn't really fair to blame Cas for Dean's choices _. Dean, his older brother…How can one guy be so awesome and such a pain in the ass all at one time?_ Sam keeps standing where he is, watching the tableau before him, indecision plain as he runs his hand over the back of his neck, over the stubble on his jaw. "Is this an overdose, Cas? Do we need to get him to a hospital?"

Castiel shakes his head no, and lifts his head only slightly to address his next words towards Sam, not looking him in the eye. "It is a _terrible_ experience with peyote. If we can keep Dean from harming himself anymore, he will be fine physically. It's just, I did not stop him at first, and … it could be hours still."

" _Peyote_ , Cas? _Peyote_? Since when does Dean try _hallucinogens_? He never even finishes his prescriptions for pain. Strong drugs and Dean just don't do well together." Sam is huffing, letting his anger build again. Lashing out at Castiel. But unlike when he chews out his brother, Sam can see each of his words stick to the broken angel. Castiel is holding Dean, but completely still otherwise. Head bowed and accepting of any punishment Sam heaps on him. Refusing to make excuses for his failures.

"Look at me, Cas," Sam starts, dad had always started lectures that way, and Sam uses those words without thinking. "Tell me what you meant by 'harming himself any more.'" But the fallen angel has obeyed and is looking up at Sam, like a puppy dog that has been kicked and is waiting for the next blow.

All the pumped up aggression drains, as Sam stoops next to him, "Hey? Cas … man." Sam notices two things: the sleeves of Dean's shirt are spotted with blood and that Castiel is silently crying, tears pouring from devastated blue eyes onto Dean's hair like an open faucet. Sam sits behind him, pulling the broken angel who is holding the whimpering body of his brother, into his arms. Sam kicks himself (metaphorically); his storming around, stomping and yelling, is only making things worse.

Castiel is amazed at Sam's compassion. The Winchesters continue to astound him and make him appreciate his Father's highest achievement, messy emotions and all. While he knows what Sam is offering, he's not ready to be forgiven or forgive himself. It should not be so easy to be absolved of the consequences of his _stupid_ actions. Actions that have left Dean in this state.

There have been very few occasions Sam can remember where someone talked his brother out of doing something he set his mind on, talked with their fists mostly. This angel is one of the few who has managed it. Sam knows that Castiel has no way of stopping Dean from doing something he has decided to do. He and Castiel both begged Dean not to become the Michael sword for the Apocalypse. Cas finally beat it into him, literally, that Dean could not fall in with the angels' plans. In the long run, whether Cas and Sam considered that a victory, he knows Dean considers it his failure – the failure of an older brother to protect a younger one. Dean's failure to protect Adam.

It is heart-breakingly sad to see Dean's angel learning these aspects of living with a hero. Living with someone who throws himself in front of a train time and again in an effort to stop that train from hurting the people he loves. Never considering what that does to them. And as much as Sam wants to be the one holding Dean right now, because Dean would do it for him, and as much as he knows he will never actually balance the scales of who has done the most for the other, Sam knows that he is doing the right things by offering his strength to the man who holds his brother's heart – even if Dean is too stubborn to ever admit it.

"It's okay, Cas. We'll get him back down - then I'll kick both your asses." Sam murmurs.

**. . .**

The concept of a supreme being, a _female_ supreme being who created the universe and all of its laws, is 25,000 years old, at least. In this little church in Albuquerque, it is the Earth Mother who is worshipped, and her priestess, Sandra Billy, is praying to the being who occasionally speaks through her. She has failed in a simple task; she wanted to bring one of the Mother's special children in balance with his spiritual nature. Bring him closer to the mother. Instead, she watched him go from relaxed and accepting, to shattered, far too quickly. She has never seen such a quick and violent reaction to her peyote tea before.

Sandra hears what sounds like a storm of anger washing through the quiet building, and she stands, ready as she will ever be to confront this. These Winchesters seem to know very little about walking in peace or beauty. She gathers together the soft scarves and blanket that she has collected. First thing's first, and that is to make sure no more harm comes to Dean.

When she enters into the room with the three men, she is astonished to see how big the third man is, who – according to what Bernadette has told her – must be Dean's younger brother. He is tall and broad, but lean, and so young with eyes far too old, like his brother's. She knows the Earth Mother will want to meet this one as well.

"I have scarves. We can use them to bind his arms and legs so he doesn't hurt himself or any of us. Then we'll roll him into this soft blanket." She is handing the items to the brother (Sam, she thinks), as she speaks. Reaches over him to use one of the scarfs to wipe both Castiel's and Dean's faces. "Once we have him safe we can talk."

Sam follows this woman's directions and with Castiel's help, they have Dean rolled up like a burrito. Sam knows doing this makes sense because Dean thrashed and kicked while they got him safely swaddled, but he also knows how much his brother would hate this. Sam picks him up and lays him gently on one of the couches, glad that Dean seems exhausted now, maybe he will fall asleep.

Cas sits at Dean's head, wiping away sweat from the bundled man, but he looks up at Sam, seated at Dean's feet. "What do you need to know, Sam?"

Sandra brings them both a glass of water, in her culture considered a gift as water is a scarce resource in the desert, and she tries not to be insulted when Sam asks if it's safe to drink.

"You are Sam, yes? Hello, I am Sandra Billy, and I want you to know it was never my intent to hurt your brother. He and Castiel came to me for help. I want to help, and the Mother wants me to." Sandra crosses toward them; she wants to check Dean, but the men are sitting like protective bookends. "Can I check him, please? Castiel, he is calmer now, we could still do what you two came here for. If through him we can reach your spirit we can help it rebalance."

Narrowing his eyes, Sam shoots a glare at Cas. "This was to help you?" Then, as though he has remembered his manners suddenly, Sam shifts toward Sandra. "God, I'm sorry. I've been behaving like a jerk." He stands up and extends his hand, looking over at the motherly figure. "Yes, I am Sam Winchester, Dean's brother. I'm sorry, I'm just worried. Please, can you tell me what is going on? What went wrong?"

Castiel looks at her sadly, though, and says no. "I cannot risk him being any more troubled on my behalf." Sandra looks at him sadly; the two berdache had seemed so relaxed earlier. Castiel clears his throat. "We were not aware that we would be drinking peyote tea. Dean succumbs easily to medication."

"Please sit again, Sam. It is giving me a headache to look up so far at you," Sandra requests. Then looking carefully at Castiel, she asks permission to place her hand on Sam's forehead. Cas warns Sam that she "reads" people that way.

Sam hesitates at first, but he's curious. "Go ahead, I guess. Did you read Dean and Castiel earlier?

Sandra says she did, but that it was hard to read Castiel. "His aura colors are angry and as though he finds forgiveness difficult. Unlike your brother's. He has a unique prism, mostly deep blue with flashes of gold and lavender. He appears to be very special."

Sam gives her a shy smile. "And my aura?"

"You are guarding it too closely, Sam. There's a murky gray around it." She explains that if she puts her hand on his forehead she may learn more. "Besides reading people, I try to help people reconnect with the mother – to balance aspects of their lives that cause them pain. Your brother was quite pleased, and no harm came to him from it."

When Sandra places her palm on his head, Sam does not feel more connected to Mary Winchester. Instead, he sees images of his brother caring for him, teaching him to walk, reading to him; Dean feeding him, helping him learn to read and write, to shoot and fight. Thousands of images flitting through his mind, thousands of ways his strong, tough, brother has nurtured and cared for him. And the times Dean has thrown himself into harm's way and into the pits of Hell. When she removes her hand from his head it is to take his hand in hers as they both cry.

"You really _never_ knew your mother, Sam? Never had a mother-figure except your brother. It seems to help you - or Castiel - find your balance, we will need to work through Dean. He is your link to the spirits"

**. . .**

Several hours later, after Sam knows all anyone can tell him about what has happened to Dean, puzzling with Cas over muttered reference to Zachariah and 2014, and after sharing a meal with Sandra and Bernie, the guys return to find a trussed up Dean wriggling around the floor trying to unravel himself. He's awake, mostly coherent, and pissed off. "What the frikkin' hell, Sam? When did you get here - and why am I tied up like a pig 'n a poke?" Sam would have found it funny if his brother's voice wasn't so ragged from screaming earlier. "Cas, man, I am _not_ into bondage, you freak. Help a brother out here."

Sam, finally, is the one who unrolls, unties, and gets his brother back on his feet. Once Dean gets a chance to wash up, piss, and get a drink of water, Sam stops him from sitting again as he peels off the over shirt to check the scratches which run all over his arms, neck, sides and shoulders. But they're not deep. Nothing soap, a hot shower, and time will not heal.

"How are you Dean, and I swear I don't know what will happen if you say 'fine'"

Dean opens his mouth, closes it again. Then he clears his throat gingerly. "Sammy, a bunch of the crazy got out. Hell . . . Hell got out." He shudders. "But I think I've got it all crammed back into the box again." He gives a half-shrug, like he wonders if Sam will accept this answer, but doesn't know what else to say. "Right now, I'm okay. I just feel kinda open, like my nerves are exposed?"

Sam's eyebrows meet as he furrows them, trying to figure out what his brother means, but he gives a small shrug, satisfied that his brother is okay, and at least not lying to him. Then Sam punches him - carefully. He avoids body shots because he knows Dean's still recuperating from the beating that hospitalized him, avoids anything that will open the fresh stitches in his head, but he hits hard and to his brother's jaw without warning. Dean has no chance to brace for the blow and flies back a few steps before landing ungracefully on his ass.

From the floor, Dean's green eyes glare up confusedly at his brother. "What the fuck, Sam?"

Sam clenches his jaw and glares right back. " _Drugs_ , Dean? _Drugs_? What the hell were you thinking? When I was 15 you _kicked my ass_ for doing drugs." He reaches down and clasps his brother's arm to help him back up. Dean eyes him warily, and Sam sees he is abashed to have forgotten. "C'mon, Dean, off the floor. I'm finished – for now. If you want to take this further, let's wait until you're better." He hauls his brother to his feet, and gives him a gentle push onto the couch where Castiel looks like a cartoon fish gasping for air.

"Sam...Do you think we can put the Jerry Springer moments away for now?" Dean croaks out, rubbing his jaw and giving his own version of puppy-dog eyes. "There's some other stuff I was gonna ask these nice people about. I've been thinking about our conversation in the Impala with Bernie – I _think_ she, umm, well, remember I said she didn't _feel_ right? I think she knows a whole enchilada of a lot more about Thunderbirds then she's letting on."

Sam looks like he wants to punch his brother again, but just can't figure out where to land another one without reinjuring him. "So you thought it would be a good idea to _go with her_ somewhere to get _stoned_? Maybe you better explain that one to me again because that sounds like the _stupidest_ plan you could have come up with."

That's when Sam realizes that Bernie and two other women are now standing inside the room.

**. . .**

The three women stand behind the priestess and then drop gracefully to the floor, hands clasped together at arm's length over their heads. Then it's as if they are stretching and sprouting feathers, slowly moving up to standing again. Each now a huge bird woman with dark feathers and white ruffs around their necks and with talons at the end of arms that hang at their sides while wings are half-spread out, overlapping and ruffling gently before closing on their backs.

Sandra stands between the men and the creatures with her hands up. "We need to talk," she begs, "beginning with the legend of when Mother Earth pushed away from Sky Father and came to the Turtle planet. And the Mother wishes to greet you." Sandra slips behind a soft shining radiance. "Be at peace and listen."

They hear how from the union of Sky Father and Mother Earth, all beings on the planet formed. They made the angels of the heavens, the Thunderbirds, Monster Slayer, and all manner of man. But Sky Father was always stirring up trouble, she says, causing her children to fight, and punishing them too harshly. This is a melding of religious pantheons, smoothly fitting together two belief systems in a way that Dean and Sam haven't seen since the Elysium Fields Inn brought together the deities of pagan religions, only to have Lucifer cut them down.

Castiel is watching the priestess with open distrust in his red-rimmed blue eyes, stiff and unresponsive. He knows this supposed "Mother" figure no more than he knows his own Father: he has only the word of his elder brothers, the archangels, to give him any perspective on the pagans - and they have never spoken of _this._ Even were it true, even were there a Goddess to God, his Father, these Thunderbirds and this "Mother" are no family of his.

He _decimated_ his family. Set it on the path to its own destruction, and now the only family that matters is this small, broken unit that has accepted him: Dean and Sam and Bobby.

(He can't think of the rest, or he will drown himself in his guilt).

"You broke up the family because you couldn't agree how to raise the kids?" Dean asks, blunt and to the point, and since his throat is so broken still, he doesn't sound at all flippant. Sandra's shining image approaches him. She gives Dean a tiny kiss on his forehead.

"That makes it sound so trivial, my child, but all of you have always mattered to me. And you, you bear some of the Divine in you; you are _of_ my lost son, Monster Slayer's line. You have lived as whole – take my blessing."

Next she approaches Sam, telling him how sorry she is that the scheming of her older children deprived him of any mother "I have no frame of reference with you, my son, I am sorry. Be at peace."

Then she sits next to Castiel and takes his reluctant hand. "How beautiful my husband's angels are when they obey. How terrible they become in rebellion or when they lose their way. Castiel, you are not a true rebel. Accept this kiss from me, your mother. I am so sorry you have been alone so long. Forgiveness must come first from you."

"You are _not_ _my_ _Mother_." Even to Castiel, he sounds like a petulant child ( _baby in a trenchcoat_ , the words still stab at him years later), but she only smiles sadly in response, her lips brushing his forehead.

Shining Sandra stands and paces back to the waiting Thunderbirds. Reaching them, she turns back toward the waiting men. "My Thunderbirds are my _messengers_ and _guardians of my first people_. I made only one hundred of them, most still remain after 28,000 years because - _unlike your Father_ \- I would rather heal them than smite them."

_I am your Father now. Be obedient, children. Or this will be your fate._

Castiel can feel the weight of Sandra's regard, and he ducks his head again, staring at his open palms.

Sandra waves her hand at the creatures behind her, and the moment goes unnoticed. "They are not monsters, unless they lose their purpose and begin to think humankind is nothing but food."

"I have two requests. One is that you capture my Thunderbird and allow her sisters to take her away for healing. The second is that I want you to call down here, whoever it is in charge of the Heavenly Host. Michael and Rafael have remained angry with me, and I could not reason with them. Whoever is currently in charge – whoever this is has me blocked from any communication."

**. . .**

"This is unwise." Castiel's voice is low and somber, but he still assists Sam and Dean in gathering the belongings they need for an angel summoning, and quietly palms the stub of chalk he will need to draw the ancient sigils. "My orders were very clear."

"We kinda suck at following Heavenly orders, Cas. I mean, our track record . . ."

Castiel shrugs off Dean's words, but Sandra turns her gaze back to their conversation as Castiel begins the Enochian recitation for the summoning.

"I will not let harm come to you in this."

"Just like that?" Sam scoffs.

"My Sam, you have allowed the imbalance inside you to affect your understanding. I did not leave in fear of the Sky Father, but in fear of what I might do to him if I had to watch what was being done to my children. Think, Sam, and you will know a protective mother is the most fearsome being."

As the final ingredients hit the bowl at the center of the sigils, it erupts with a gout of white flame: Sam and Dean avert their gazes from the flash, but Castiel raises his eyes from his work and meets his brother's stare as he appears directly before him.

"You know, bro, we gotta work on this whole concept of 'Don't' Call Me.' I mean, I thought I was pretty clear." Gabriel taps the side of his head indicatively with the hilt of his blade, and pops the lollypop in his other hand back between his lips, speaking around it. "What with you eavesdropping and everything. Which by the way, dumb idea. I really should just off you, put you out of my misery."

"Hello, Gabriel." Castiel greets his brother in the bare span of break in his words, as Dean and Sam fall in around the archangel, who appears supremely unconcerned. Unconcerned, until a single word.

"Coyote?"


	8. Chapter 8

_No I would not give you false hope_

_On this strange and mournful day_

_But the mother and child reunion_

_Is only a motion away._

"Mother and Child Reunion" by Paul Simon

**. . .**

"Coyote?"

In the blink of an eye, Gabriel's entire demeanor changes. He looks startled and a little bit scared, and then as quickly as it changed the crooked grin is in place. As he turns toward the voice and takes in Shining Sandra and the Thunderbirds, he's every inch the Trickster they had greeted him as. ". . . Wow. Long time no see. Hiya, Mom. Sisters."

"Coyote? How came _you_ to being in charge of the Heavenly Host?" Gabriel whistles lightly, as if the question insults him, fanning his fingers at himself.

"Hey now, what kind of question is that? I'm better qualified than the _last_ guy who tried." Castiel winces. "Or you could say it was process of elimination." Castiel looks away. "Or cutbacks. . ."

"Yeah, yeah, _Gabby,_ we frikkin' got it. You're hilarious." Dean steps forward, his tone indicating anything but amusement, and Castiel extends one arm to keep him back. Dean shoots a look of disbelief at the parental-arm gesture, gaining a glare from Castiel. "You're _impaired_."

"Castiel and his _impaired_ hero. Oh, you two just get more and more _adorable_ , don't you? I mean, I thought the snuggling was bad enough. . ." Dean makes a noise like a strangled cat, and shoots a glare between Castiel and the archangel.

"What the hell are you talking about? What the hell is he talking about, Cas?" He sure as hell hadn't invited Gabriel along for any snuggling (not that he snuggled). And then a terrifying thought hit his drug-addled brain. He had no idea what had happened prior to being unrolled from his blanket-bondage. Tilting slightly, he adds in a hoarse whisper that carries more than he intended. ". . . Cas, were we snuggling?" Behind them, Sam falls into a sudden coughing fit that fails to hide his stifled laugh at his brother's exaggerated concern.

Without looking away from Castiel, a sadistic sort of glee lighting his eyes, Gabriel rolls his lollipop from one side of his mouth to the other. Castiel, for his part, shifts in place awkwardly. "You didn't _tell_ him?" Then to Dean, "He didn't tell you? Geeze, I mean. . . _I_ should be the embarrassed one."

" _Coyote_." There was a warning note to Sandra's voice, and Castiel seems to be quickly losing patience with his brother, which is rather a dangerous position to be falling into: after Gabriel's resurrection, it might be _Castiel's_ Grace that Gabriel is wielding along with the power of myriad purgatory beasts, but it would smite him easily.

"Tell me _what_? Cas, what's. . ." Dean looks confused, and slightly panicked.

"I'm talking about when I went and picked my little bro here up from his Heaven for you – his human Heaven. I practically had to peel you two apart first. Boy did _I_ get an eyeful. . ."

"Gabriel. _Enough_." Castiel is mortified.

"Or _what_?" Gabriel's vessel may be the least physically intimidating in the room, but the air crackles with power as he swings a piercing gaze on the fallen angel, pointing his blade indicatively at Castiel's chest. The jokes, the quips, the casual mockery, it is the barest disguise for the danger he poses. "You stuck me with this job, Castiel, but don't think for a minute that it means we're pals. We're fighting a _war_ because of you. We could solve a lot of problems by me putting you back in that Heaven right here and right now."

Sandra, the corporeal presence of Mother Earth, walks toward the Archangel. "You _will not harm_ them. They are under my protection, and they called you here at my request. I will not let you harm them," and her voice somehow carries with it the hair-raising growl of a mother bear whose cubs are endangered.

"We are in my house - with my rules. And I am prepared to fight for my obedient children who are under my protection here. But I never expected it to be you, my son. My _sweet_ , funny, Coyote. My cunning trickster." She murmurs the endearments, diffusing the situation. "Why did you go back to the Heavenly Host? I thought you were done with their wars and intrigues. You were in 'witness protection' and wanted nothing to do with the fight between Lucifer and Michael. And now you lead the forces of Heaven against the forces of hell – and you tear at each other. And you won't answer my calls."

She approaches and clasps the smaller man in her arms, hugging him closely, and Gabriel has to shift the sword in his fist as he accepts the embrace without actively returning it, still wired tightly and glaring at Castiel. "Please sit with me at my table, your sisters will bring us sweet cold water, and we will break bread, and talk. My way is of peace and beauty. Put away your sword for now. We will relax for now, yes?"

"Looking at Mister 'Impaired' over there, I think we've probably passed the peace pipe enough today." But there was something nostalgic about it: Gabriel had always preferred the company of the "pagans," and he allows himself to be drawn away.

Sandra guides the guys to a dining room where there are pitchers of weepingly cold water and Indian flatbread, as well as steaming bowls of venison stew. She insists on catching up with Gabriel during the meal. Once the food bowls are empty, Shining Sandra fixes Gabriel with a stern look. "Are you ready to explain this mess?"

"What's to explain? Mikey, Raph, Lucy, they all decided to end the world. We decided we liked it. So I got angel-kabobbed saving the pagans and telling Rocky and Bullwinkle here how to save the world. Fast forward a couple years, your blue-eyed boy Castiel here is cracking Purgatory, making deals with the devil, and sets himself up as God. Only he screws the whole thing up, manages to kill more of Heaven than he ever did Hell, and decides for his curtain call he's going to drag yours truly from the great beyond and stick the whole mess on me." Gabriel is trying not to, but he can tell from the less-than-impassive faces of the Winchesters that he is sounding whiny: Castiel, however, nods slightly at his general assessment and raises his eyes to Gabriel.

"I am sorry, brother. Giving it into your hands was the best I knew to do after I ruined everything." Castiel looks at his older brother, and it reminds Gabriel of the look on Sam Winchester's face when he begged for his brother's life after the events at Mystery Spot.

"Don't you widen those baby blues at me." They are _all_ doing it. Castiel is watching him with earnest remorse laced with pain, and the youngest Winchester is like an overgrown Saint Bernard pup, and. . . no, Dean mostly still just looks stoned, but it is pitiful too.

Sandra looks between Gabriel and Castiel, then at the Winchesters, measuring them with her glance. "Gabriel, look at your brother" – she points at Castiel, and under directed scrutiny he drops his gaze to his hands again. "Even if I could let you hurt your little brother, I wouldn't. He has chosen his punishment. No, he is mine - and if you or your warriors hurt him - you will answer to my wrath. Now, really look at Dean Winchester right now while our peyote has opened his spirit. What do you see?"

"A stoned Ken Doll dressed like a lumberjack." There's _no_ hesitation in the response.

". . . I'm right here. In the room."

"Yeah, I know, that's what makes it funny." With a put-upon sigh, Gabriel finally swings his gaze to Dean as requested. They're a tangled mess, and Cas is right in the middle of it now, the codependent relationship that he'd illustrated to Sam in the mystery spot now drawn together with a spark of the divine besides the traces of angelic Grace - and he sees the seeds of his mother's oldest child, Monster Slayer. A bloodline that traces back to the first of her Earthborn children.

"It's a Thai noodle bowl; I'd have to kill all three of you."

"Do not underestimate again," Mother Earth says. Then she dismisses the Winchesters and Cas, because she knows that Gabriel is not ready to forgive. She tells them to go capture her Thunderbird, capture, not kill, and turn her over for rehabilitation. "Walk softly, please. Let your spirit heal and hold to each other."

"Goodbye my boys. Gabriel and I have strategy to discuss. The forces of Hell shall not have my planet."

**. . .**

The Winchesters and Castiel are back at the campsite near the Petroglyph National Monument later that evening. Dean is sitting, flanked by Cas and his brother, on the hood of the Impala watching the skies. He's there on _probation_ because Sam didn't want to leave him alone when he's not sure all the peyote crazy is out of him yet. Sam and Castiel have both told him he's there to observe only. It's like they say it in stereo repeatedly, in case he forgets. If he weren't feeling so mellow, he might have to take offense. They have the weighted net ready, sitting atop the blankets. Somewhere out in the darkness three Thunderbirds will respond to carry away their sister once she has been taken.

"Frikkin' families," Dean mutters. At a stern glance from Sam – _and what is with him and the big brother act he's been pulling all damned day,_ Dean wonders – "Present company excluded, of course. I mean the frikkin' Earth Mother, and Gabriel, and the Campbell Mafia. Don't it seem like we're flooded with family right now?" He snorts contemptuously. "Except for Bobby, I've got everyone I call family right here. You guys and my baby."

Sam turns a fond half smile at his brother. "You're still stoned aren't you?"

"Little bit."

Castiel explains that it sometimes takes 24 hours for peyote to work its way out of a person's system. Sam asks why it didn't affect him so much. Castiel shakes his head. "Tolerance levels."

Sam wonders if what he's going to do next counts as taking advantage of Dean's compromised state. Decides he doesn't care. This mellow guy here seems more caring and sharing than his usually emotionally stunted brother. "So, Dean, while we're just sitting here waiting anyway, Cas and I…" At that, Cas looks over at Sam, his eyes round, shaking his head. "Cas and I," Sam repeats, "Thought maybe you'd like to stop _keeping_ _secrets_ and fill us in on whatever's got you so upset about 2014."

Dean startles. "2014? When did I? How do you know about that, Sammy? Guess it doesn't matter. You remember when you wanted back in as a hunter, 2009. 2014 is the long story I didn't tell you guys then. That's the year that dick with wings, the ghost of Christmas screw you, Zachariah - zapped me into - in the future – before you took a swan dive. Into what the world would look like if we lost, if Michael lost because I would not _submit_. Earth was Croatoan world," Dean's telling it like it's a story he's rehearsed in his head, badly, and maybe it is. There've been plenty of times he wanted to say something.

"I got to meet myself – future me - and I sure as shit didn't much like me. Still handsome though and a _badass_ hunter." He grins at Sammy and Cas and wiggles his eyebrows.

"Future me, well, I was a dick – _stop laughing, Sam_ my - I can be a jerk sometimes, sure, and you can be a bitch, like _right now_." He pushes Sam, who slides off the Impala, then makes a big show of getting back up. Fixing the blankets. Dean has wandered off in his mind a little, locking gazes with Castiel. "I wasn't running around with another angel on purpose." His thumb traces Cas's lower lip, and Sam has to prompt him to get him back on topic.

"I'm trying to come clean, like you asked. Confess." Dean says, nodding his head. "Future me was an uncaring dick _all_ the time. To _everyone_ , about _everything_. Damn, guys, he was driving a jeep and baby was sitting abandoned and falling apart in weeds right in front of me. And he didn't care about _baby_."

This is a form of heresy to Dean, who has shrugged off actual heresy on more than one occasion.

"I guess I, me, _future_ _me_ was banging every woman in the survivor's group, but he didn't care about any of them. Don't look at me like that, Sammy. Even back when I picked up women all the time, I cared enough to try not to hurt them, give them a good time, feel good about themselves. _I'm a giver_ like that, right? He adds with a small grin at Cas, who blushes. "This was different. This was straight up fucking any girl who would let me/him, _shit_ , talking about this is complicated, future me, he was using them." Dean is appalled by his future self's behavior.

"And, yeah, Sam I know you think I've always been some kind of slut, but all my using was for mutual pleasure and release. Not _this_. Not … how future me treated women - like they _weren't_ _people_. Lying to them about having a connection."

Dean gets sidetracked again, looking at Castiel and feeling like his angel was upset about him talking about being a slut. "Hey, Cas. You okay?" Cas finds Dean's hand under the blanket and presses his palm into Dean's hand. The simple gesture and the touch calm Dean again, who rolls onto his hip staring into his angel's eyes. Cas gets a slight smile on his face, turns slightly toward Dean, enjoying this relaxed version of the usually hyperkinetic man.

"No snuggling!" Sam sits up and bellows. "Just take a time-out! No goo-goo eyes on the job." He pokes his brother's hip. "Sit up."

Dean, obediently, sits up again. He didn't mean to snuggle in public. He clears his throat and continues. "Sammy. Sammy, _you_ were, _he_ was _gone_ ; he'd said yes to Lucifer, but didn't win. He was gone, not even soulless-Sam gone, gone like he had never existed even though he knew all our memories together. My Sammy was gone –locked away somewhere I guess, and I think he took every ounce of love I ever felt with him. Sammy's body was there…Sammy's memories being used to help torment me."

And Sam's heart turns in his chest. Hearing the raw hurt in Dean's voice – and the love - makes him wish he hadn't punched him earlier or yelled at him. Dean's eyes are sparkling with unshed tears.

"Sam – I was so frikkin' _scared_ when you guys said we had to … I was so scared that I... It _hurt_. I can't get it out of my mind. I mean, I was tortured in Hell, but this was, was worse. What if this was gonna be it? That Lucifer would win? That it would set this 2014 future _hellvision_ into motion? That we would gamble - and I would lose _everything_. I think I hoped Lucifer would just kill me then and there." Dean pulls his knees to his chest and lowers his face onto them, wiping tears away on the blanket, and trying to pretend they aren't there. His next words are almost incoherent between the ruin of his throat and the tears. "Sammy, I'd rather die a hundred times than have you die - _especially_ like that – _for nothing_."

"And Cas. _My_ Cas, my _angel_ , you were there but you were so different. Your powers were gone but that's not it, you'd been powerless before. You were still with me in body – shit, I knew I'd be too stupid to explain this right. You and me were there, but we weren't together, like – you know - never had been. You were a drug-addicted orgy-holding burnt-out hippy with those same _gorgeous_ eyes, but so _defeated_ ; and future me, he was planning to use you as part of a diversion. Just didn't even care if you got killed. Future me had been too much of a pansy to – well, shit – guess that's the wrong way to put it." Dean trails off, and the silence stretches out. Dean is reviewing his memories, nightmares, and hallucinations of this event.

Glancing at each other over Dean's bowed head, Sam and Cas move in just a little closer on each side, bolstering him. Sam brings his head down onto his knees. "What else did you see Dean?" He asks gently.

"I – _can't breathe_ thinking about it." Dean says, voice even more ragged than earlier. "Cas was so _different_. Popping pills. Smoking pot and what-all. Boozing all the time. Drinking _absinthe_. I don't even know what the frikkin' hell that is." He turns to Cas indignantly. "You were having _orgies_ , Cas. _Orgies_. You were so different, Cas. You _laughed at me_ because I cared. I amused you. And if you don't know how much it tears me up inside to think I _did_ this to you _. I did that to you_ , Cas. I am so scared that I'm _still_ going to do that to you. And the _drugs_ , Cas. It's enough to make me get on my knees and pray to a God I know is not listening. I can't stand the thought of you going down that road."

Dean puffs out a breath nosily. "So, yeah, I didn't tell you. I came back, and I didn't want to say yes, but I knew I had to find a way to stop that future. Cas helped convince me not to say yes by beating me bloody. _Good times._ And Sammy, you _had_ to say yes, I had to _let_ you. To have faith in you. But I was so scared, and I came with you so you wouldn't be alone. I think I wanted Lucifer to kill me then – just get it over with because I saw what an empty waste of space I would be without any love left. There's times I would … but I don't know if death, little D death, would be an end." Dean has his head on his knees again, and Sam places his hand on Dean's neck, squeezes it, then squeezes a little harder and gives his brother a shake.

"Hey, if you do anything stupid, I might kill you myself," Sam says, trying for humor and failing. Sam sits there with a worried frown and his hand on his brother's neck. Cas has stopped rubbing circles on the back of Dean's hand with his thumb, freezing statue still as he hears what Dean is saying, and what he is leaving out.

" _Damnit_ , Sam, I do _stupid things_ all the time. But, I tell you what, you have my _permission_ to punch me again if I do any more peyote. Not that I knew I was. This shit is turning me into a girl. God, this is so _not_ awesome." Dean is muttering and wiping his eyes on the blanket.

He sounds awful and tired. But, he feels like he came this far, so he might as well finish. "It gives me nightmares, I guess. That future. _Us_ _in that future_. Sure was nightmares today. I keep thinking how I can't keep doing this…" Gesturing with his hand to include everything …"without you. I need you two to always be Team Free Will with me. Knowing what I know, what Zachariah said was coming. Knowing what might be coming down the pike, and knowing I'm _too stupid_ to stop it. So, yeah, this is me coming clean because I … I need your help to stop this. I can't do it myself."

Castiel slips off his side of the Impala and tugs on Dean's hand to get him to stand up too, but it is not tender. Instead, Castiel looks pissed off. He looks sternly at Dean, anger glinting in his bright blue eyes, invading his personal space menacingly. "You have called yourself _stupid_ one time too many today, Dean Winchester. And you have called him stupid, Sam. It makes me so angry to know that you do that when you know he believes in you. _Stop_ it."

Sam starts rethinking the conversation and realizes that Cas is telling the truth. "I want to punch you, Sam, like you did Dean." Castiel, looking more like the agent of fate than he has in a long time, glares at Sam, then switches that fury towards Dean. "I will punch you if you don't stop this - or _spank_ you like the pizza man did that woman."

Dean turns bright red. His mouth drops open. "Cas, that, umm, that's _porn_ , not real life," he stammers. Sam starts laughing so hard he falls off the car, and keeps laughing, holding his stomach. "I'm going to get some rest," Dean says abruptly, he grabs a blanket, climbs into the Impala's back seat and pulls the blanket over his head.

Castiel turns to the laughing Sam. "I don't understand what I said that is so funny."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it's funny, and came out of Gabriel's mouth or because of him, credit goes to MummyMollyWeasley. His voice is HARD. So "adlib something here" was put in the story, and then came the funnies.


	9. Hell or Heaven

**. . .**

_Mama used to say to me, you can make your destiny_

_Keep your feet planted on the ground_

_You can always get it back, make a castle from a one room shack_

_It's all of what you make of what you've found_

_Son you're gonna find out when you're older_

_There's always been the hand of god restin' right there on your shoulder_

_Will it be hell or heaven on earth_

_The choice is up to you_

" _ **Hell or Heaven" by Lynyrd Skynyrd**_

**Chapter 9 –**

"Friendly, coming in," calls Bernie, as she walks over to where Sam and Castiel are watching the skies.

Cas turns an unfriendly eye on her. "Debatable," he mutters, features pinched in a classic Sam Winchester bitchface.

Sam reacts more like she had lobbed a grenade than a salutation. He springs up from the Impala and turns to face her, tension radiating from his muscular frame, "What do you want, Bernie?"

"Don't be like that Sam. We were good to each other, and I never lied to you. I wanted to make sure we are both ready for the capture of my sister this night, and to ask you to keep my identity secret."

Castiel walks over to stand near Sam, his physical and emotional support closing proximity. He would guard his friend, even if his powers were so weak that there was little he could do - his powers so weak that it was Dean, and not he, who could feel her otherness. "You withheld important information. That is a lie of omission."

"It's okay, Cas, I've got this. Maybe you could go check on Dean," While Sam appreciates Cas's fighting skills (millennia of being a soldier is not easily erased), he really doesn't feel like he needs a second big brother. Especially one who learned over-protectiveness from Dean. Sam 'stands down.' Relaxes with his hip propped against the Impala, arms crossed, and waits for Bernie to close the distance between them.

"So what's a non-Christian angel doing TA'ing for my great uncle?"

Bernie matches his pose. "Didn't miss that, huh?"

"You've been here for two years. We just met the man. Didn't miss that you lured my brother to the church either, trying to offer him something that couldn't be found there. Using his feelings for Cas," Sam's words are wrung from clenched teeth. "Think you were using me too. And I'd like to know why."

Bernie's sigh is long and sad. She looks Sam in the eye. "Would you believe me if I said most of it was business, but you were just pleasure? I'd like for you to believe that." She gives him an assessing glance, sees that tact has not budged Sam. "Earth Mother has been looking for you. I am watching your family for her. Getting close to you – was purposeful.""

Sam nods. "They're not, you know. Not really family. Strangers with blood ties."

She nods. "We realized you weren't tied to them. But you should think about it. Your little group needs support in a big war where so much of the destruction falls on your heads. But now we know you, and Dean, and Cas. We know who we are looking for. We know what you're willing to do – know where you stand."

He looks at her sadly. "You don't need our help here at all, do you? This whole thing was a setup to get us out here?" He sees the answer in her eyes. "You killed a college kid."

"Not me personally," she says. "Cattle mutilations weren't going to be enough to get you here. Does this make me a monster in your book? Because after 20 millennium, it's not the worst thing I've done, nor is it the worst I will do for my mother."

She reaches a hand out, puts in gently on his arm. Sam shakes it off. "What about my brother? What about the attack on him?"

"We really expected him to duck faster. Maybe you should all consider how fit you are to be monster hunting before you do it. He was reckless. You were lustful. Your angel, broken. I really do not see why the Mother thinks you have a joined destiny that will help us defeat the powers of Hell. But so be it." When he looks her in the eye again, he sees something ancient and scary looking back. "Goodbye, Sam Winchester. We'll meet again."

"Not here, we won't," Sam says. "Not near Professor Campbell either. I don't think we're going to make it easy for you to continue to spy on us. Bernadette had better just move along."

"Or what?"

"We'll think of something. We always do."

He watches her walk into the surrounding darkness.

THUNDER.

**. . .**

By the time they get back to the motel, Sam has filled in the other two on the trap they fell into and the three are brooding. They were played.

When they open the hotel door to find Sam's computer, their notes, and the digital camera missing, they're furious. "Just gotta sleep with and piss off the monsters, Sammy? Why don't you have any normal drama with the ladies?" Dean asks less than helpfully. Sam's slammed bedroom door is the only answer.

**. . .**

Three subdued hunters go about their packing in the morning. Dean has an aching head, Sam is still pissed off, and Castiel is naturally quiet. They have packed most of their belongings and are drinking coffee waiting for the professor to come by before they hit the road again. Albuquerque feels like it snared them, and none of them like that feeling.

Dean is restless, feels emotionally drained from the peyote trip and subsequent spilling of his guts. _Like walking around naked_ , he thinks. Starts planning to push himself harder physically, especially because Sam told him what bird-lady Bernie had said about the Thunderbird only hurting him because he was slow. He wonders if Sam would notice if he Irished up his coffee, but he doesn't. Bad enough if being slow gets him killed, he doesn't want to be the reason Cas or his brother dies.

In front of the bathroom mirror, Castiel, holding three pills in his hand, looks at himself with loathing. Swallows. Angel radio is louder when Gabriel is nearby.

Dean clears his throat. Gets Sam's attention. "So before the professor gets here, I thought maybe we should talk about his offer. The teaching thing…" Sam raises surprised eyes to his brother.

"Are you seriously thinking about taking him up on that, Dean? Getting us tangled in the Campbell Clan?"

One layer of worry slides off Dean's face, leaving a warm smile for his brother. "I was thinking that you might want it Sam. Want the family and a home and a semi-normal job. That normal life I could never give you."

Sam snorts. "Thanks, but no thanks, bro. I have enough family to worry about right here. Amongst us we've got ten kinds of crazy as it is." Cas gives a half-smile. He likes being included in this family.

"I'll drive," Cas offers. Dean snorts. "It's my car."


End file.
